


A Sword to Fall On

by Elysiummm



Series: California By Night [3]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Angst, Gen, agoge, culture of Clan Ventrue, elders abusing blood bonds, outcast, vampires GTOW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysiummm/pseuds/Elysiummm
Summary: Matthew Monroe appears to be the ideal Ventrue. Honourable, clever, a skilled liar, a good leader, and unafraid to get his hands dirty. Saved from a painful death, he clings to the culture of Clan Ventrue and the concept of noblisse oblige: the obligation of the ruling to the ruled. Yet, the clan isn't what it appears to be. It's filled with conniving elders, tyrants, and abusers. He finds himself on the outside looking in. Every clan hates the Ventrue, but no one can hate the clan like another Ventrue.Monroe holds tight to the noblisse oblige that others of his blood only give lip service to. He has made his choice. This is the hill he is going to die on. This is the sword he will fall on.-----Origin story of Matthew Monroe, from his Embrace in 1873 to the end of his time in the Camarilla in 2000. Rated Mature for graphic violence and murder. Acts as a prequel/backstory to City of Fallen Angels.
Series: California By Night [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813321
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	1. 1873: Embrace

#  **1873**

##  **Embrace**

  
  


Stormclouds blotted out the harsh sun of the plains. This late in the season, merely rain would be a small mercy. The wind bit colder, harsher, crueller. Monroe shivered in his blue military coat. It might’ve been wool, but the clothes beneath were thin. Snow could spell something terrible for the horses — both Indian and American. The conflict had begun long before him and he expected to long outlast him, but there was always the hope that it could end in a fortnight.

It was always the sargent’s promise.

_ Home for Christmas… for Easter… for the summer… for the harvest… for the new year. _

And now for Christmas again.

In the time, forts had been built anew across Indian infested lands — imposing structures of sandstone that glinted gold in the summer sun — and already begun to crack along their foundations. From the east walls of the fort, Monroe could see young homesteads in the distance. New lots had been opened up, a promise that their war would continue so long as the Indians had a west to flee.

Monroe turned on his heel and continued his patrol along the battlements. He pinched feeling back into his nose, fingers nearly numb in their thin gloves. The sun, hidden though it was, darkened further and turned the endless seas of grass a cold blue.

It would be rotten to spend another year on the prairies. On his men went about mothers, pretty girls, little brothers and sisters, homesteads, the fields, the livestock, the professions and shops. Every new worry lay heavy on his shoulders. 

The first snow began to fall. One flake at a time, then a gentle flutter, filling the air with cold stars that melted as they landed on the wild grass.

Another year, at least.

Monroe reached the far end of the battlements, where the colonel took to spending his evenings. Roger Helms — “Colonel” or “sir” unless you felt like getting written up. New recruits would be told terrible stories, about how each hair in his wiry beard was another Indian he killed, every gray hair from some smart alec recruit. And he had plenty of grays to spare.

Monroe clicked his heels and snapped to attention.

The colonel barely glanced up from his book. “Are you going to do that every time you pass by, captain?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” barked Monroe, too loudy in the still dusky air. He whirled back to continue his patrol.

“Stay a minute, eh?” The colonel folded the page and set his book under the stool he sat on. “Have a cigarette.” He offered a battered paper packet.

Monroe took one and lit it on the glowing brazier next to the colonel. The smoke warmed him from the inside out. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

“We’ll have good victories come spring,” said the colonel with a satisfied sigh. “Indian horses will be weak from a lean winter. Our cavalry’ll overrun them.”

Spring.

He smirked. “Does that mean you’ll be putting me on a horse yet?” 

The colonel considered it. “D’you want it, Matthew?” he asked in a way that made it quite clear to Monroe that he could get it if he asked for it.

Monroe tapped the ashes from his cigarette. Best not push too hard. The colonel had a son at home, about Monroe’s age, and hadn’t seen him in years now. “Put me where you need me, sir. Heard word from back home?”

The captain smoked his own cigarette for some time, his eyes trained on the stones beneath their feet. Too long. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” said Monroe softly.

The colonel grimaced. “My wife gave birth, but he died a few days later.” He took another drag and as he breathed out, his shoulders sagged. “Took my wife with him.”

“You’ll see them again,” said Monroe. “In Paradise.”

The colonel’s beard twitched in what might’ve been a crooked smile. “You can’t be believing that anymore than me, but I appreciate the kind thoughts.”

Monroe lowered the weight of his musket from his shoulder, letting it lean against the bassilde wall. It brushed aside the dusting of fine snow, like ash.

“No, I don’t believe that none either,” he admitted. “But I do know that my parents, dead they may be, live on with their words and deeds. My mother sits on my shoulder, reminding me to mind my manners, tend to the garden. I knew my father best from stories but he inspired me to enlist, to fight for the Union like he done. Your wife’ll live on, so long as you let her.”

The colonel returned his gentle stare and Monroe didn’t have the heart to say his mother had been a drunk filled with grief who scarcely remembered she had a son, let alone told stories of her dead husband who dragged them into California as he chased gold.

“Thank you, Matt,” the colonel said heavily. “You’re a good boy.” His eyes shone like marbles, reflecting the stars of snow and sky, but his face hardened behind his beard suddenly. The moment was gone.

Monroe took his rifle back and allowed the colonel his privacy. He gave another salute and turned back.

“Captain Monroe,” the colonel called. He lowered his voice. “There’ll be an attack tomorrow. Your boys in it. I’ve put you on the western flank, but you’ll want to stay back. The lieutenants—” He swallowed his unsaid words. 

It was all he could say — more than he should — and Monroe took the gift as it came. “I’ll remember that, sir,” he said.

  
  


Monroe faded in and out of consciousness, plagued by nightmares just out of reach. Colours and sensations swirled malevolently, pounding to the rhythm of his heart — his shoulder? Voices.

His world narrowed to a icy pinprick and his eyes shot open.

“Told you he’s not dead.”

“That’s  _ enough _ , private.”

“Oy, Stewart, go tell the colonel that Monroe ain’t dead.”

Monroe shivered, his face slick. Wet. Cold. He struggled to sit up, but a terrible wave of pain stole his vision and he collapsed again.

His memories flickered back into place. The frosted grass early morning, just after breakfast, storming the reservation, the fogged breaths of horses, the Indians returning gunfire with arrows.

“Get some rest, captain,” said a strange voice. A medic. He was in the sickroom, in the basement of the fort, on a cot. A few other cots were filled. Injured. The battle had ended hours ago. 

“The company,” he said hoarsely. “Wood.”

Henry Wood. Square-jawed, clear-eyed, his brothers had bought a lot in Georgia and they missed him for the last three harvests. “How you doing, sir?”

“The boys — the battle — hang on, did you throw water on me?” Monroe wiped his face in confusion.

The medic threw Wood a dark look, though the boy didn’t have the grace to look ashamed. He was markedly pale, his eyes too wide and white.

Wood shrugged. “They told me and Stewart to see how you were doing. Hard to do when you don’t wanna wake up.”

“I’m — fine.” The words struggled out. Monroe was able to narrow his pain into his left shoulder. He tried to turn it and felt blackness edge his vision. “The company—”

“We’re all fine. Even Robinson.”

Monroe sighed. His ribs must’ve been bruised too and he winced. “What happened to me?”

“Took a flying tomahawk right to the chest,” said Wood with a shaky smile. “Never seen a thing like it. Bulls-eye!”

Monroe flexed his left hand, fingers, elbow. All felt intact. On the table next to him, along with a cup of water, was a wicked-looking weapon. Iron axehead on a short wooden shaft carved in words he couldn’t read. The head was covered in his blood, crusted dark.

He called to get the medic’s attention again. “Hey, how long until I’m back up to normal?”

The medic pulled a fresh syringe from a packed leather case and attached a strange liquid. “We’ll see, sir,” he said. “Private, it’s time for you to return to your barracks.”

Wood looked to Monroe, who waved him off.

“I’ll be back in a few nights — don’t worry.”

The medic injected Monroe’s right arm and he felt the familiar flood of morphine. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been laid up. Once, a broken leg. Another time, a sickness through the camp on the march. Still, there was always the fear.

“I’ll be fine, right?” asked Monroe as the drug began to take effect.

There was no answer before he succumbed to the morphine and a dreamless sleep.

By the end of the next night, Monroe found the courage to look at his wounds as the medic applied fresh dressing. Not as bad as he feared. The tomahawk had sunk below his collarbone, just above the armpit. The medic must’ve sewn it best he could, but it felt far worse than it looked. He felt like a puppet who had his strings cut. Every motion of his left shoulder was utter agony, and while he could stand and walk fine, the medic confined him to bed until he was past the danger of infection.

Monroe spent most of his time trying to convince the medic to let him drink. Then, at least, he’d be as capable as anyone else in the fort.

His company came down, in twos and threes, bringing others’ well wishes and their own stories and laughter. Stewart knew card tricks and every time he lost out on their poker games, he’d entertain with his own deck. The boys would be able to drink, growing rowdy, singing terribly until the medic shoed them away. It never lasted long enough. The colonel visited once, but something haunted lingered in his eyes and Monroe let him go shortly. He spent his days smoking his ration and struggling to eat.

A gnarled knot in his stomach resisted food. He had no taste for anything, not even when the frustrated medic took his cigarettes away. Monroe lay back in the increasingly silent and chilled sickroom, alone with his thoughts. As amorphous as they were, they were filled with fear. A private fear, one he dared not share — not with his men, not with the colonel. It was his to bare.

Monroe refused the morphine on the tenth night and took up a bottle of white liquor instead. He chased his fear with another drink as the medic lifted the bandages. Of late, they had been stiff, thick with fluids. The smell that had lingered on the edge of his mind intensified as the final layers were lifted back. It was a smell he knew well and answered every question he had save one.

The flesh of the wound was burning hot, a tight swollen red that threatened to pull the stitches from the skin. But Monroe didn’t look at the wound. He had eyes only for the medic.

With practiced speed, the medic retrieved his leather kit and cut the stitches out.

“How’s it look, doctor?” asked Monroe. His head swayed gratefully with the white liquor.

The medic’s lips twitched. “I’m not a doctor, captain. Just a soldier. I’m just —”

“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” said Monroe mildly.

As the last stitch was snipped away, the edges of the wound parted and drew his gaze downward. Within, along with the dark crimson of dried blood and the parch of white bone, was an unmistakable bulging and streaked red veins.

“Good thing I’m right-handed, huh, doctor.” Monroe drank again.

A sweat broke out along the medic’s hairline. He swallowed. “I can’t. The infection’s following the veins into the chest. Even if I took the arm, it would keep spreading.”

Monroe came to the end of his bottle.

“That’s a damn shame, then, isn’t it.” He didn’t understand. He wasn’t upset. He knew it was coming. It was the inevitable job of a soldier to die. But then, why was he crying?

A sharp burning pain made him cry out as the medic cleaned the infected wound with a terrible-smelling liquid, rebandaging it tight enough to make Monroe lose consciousness briefly.

“I’ll bring your company down,” said the medic. 

Unable to drink, dreading what he would think if he dared put words together in his mind, Monroe wiped his tears clean. He understood the medic was breaking rules for him. 

It was Wood again. Wood, Stewart, and Cruz. Clearly, they hadn’t been told.

Stewart, squirrelly and scarcely sixteen, and Cruz, all black hair and Mexican features, sat at the edge of the bed. Stewart played with a deck of cards in his lap.

“So, the colonel’s going to have us follow the Indians west,” said Cruz. “A new fort is getting built, somewhere in the mountains.”

“Colonel’s not making decisions,” said Monroe wearily. “He does what he’s told, like we all do.”

Stewart fanned the cards out. “Pick one, captain.”

“What’s gonna happen, sir?” asked Cruz. “West, west, and west, but one day, the Indians will run out of ‘west’.”

Once, Monroe would’ve come up with a retort, or even thought of an answer to a problem so far outside their control it didn’t bear thinking of. “I don’t know,” he said instead. 

“Pick a card.”

Cruz rolled his eyes. “Do it, sir. Just to shut him up.”

Monroe drew one. Ace of spades.

Stewart lit up. “Thank you, sir, now put it back.” He went on his routine of erratic shuffling.

“How’re the rest of the men doing?” asked Monroe.

Cruz looked at him strangely. “Good as ever. Looking forward to having you back.”

“You ain’t coming back, though, are you, sir?” asked Wood. He had stood off in the corner and now that Monroe turned to him, he saw the drawn skin, dark bags under red rheumy eyes.

Cruz cursed in Spanish. “Captain will be back soon. Don’t discourage him.”

Monroe caught Cruz’s eye and just shook his head briefly. The small motion struck Cruz silent.

“Is  _ this _ your card?” Stewart triumphantly held up the seven of clubs.

Wood picked Stewart up and dropped him off on the floor, sitting on the cot in his stead.

Monroe smiled. “Yeah, boy, that’s my card. You’re getting better at this.”

Stewart beamed, but the smile warbled. He wasn’t nearly as big a fool as he played. “Thank you, sir. For — for everything.”

“Come on, now, I’m not dead yet.” Monroe fended off a hug from a tearful Stewart. “I’m not. I might beat back the infection. Medic hasn’t been saying yet.”

Shoes on the stairs startled them all. The three stood at attention before Monroe realised it was the colonel. He stood, still in full uniform, as prim and stern as he must’ve been at breakfast.

“Gentlemen,” said the colonel.

“Colonel, sir,” said Wood respectfully.

“A word alone with the captain, if you please.”

Exchanging uneasy looks, the boys left him and the colonel alone. Monroe sat up and tried to appear less drunk. He raised his hand to salute, but the shift in his shoulders brought a pain that sobered him faster than he thought.

“At ease, son,” the colonel said briskly. “Medic Williamson was telling me about your… situation. A supply train is running back to California tomorrow. You could be on it, if you would rather be home.”

Monroe struggled to understand the words. “What? You’re… sending me away?”

That haunted hollowness returned to the colonel. “By all rights, I should put you to duty and hurry matters up, but I’d rather you be comfortable when it happens. A quiet honourable discharge, no one needs to know. There’s nothing more we can do for you in the fort, son.”

Monroe felt the senseless tears return to his eyes. “Take care of my men, please.”

“Of course,” said the colonel. “Anything else?”

“Tell them…” What? Had Monroe anymore to drink, he might’ve been as dreadfully sappy as to leave a parting message of love or missing them. “Tell them that I’m proud of them.”

“I will. Do you want to be on that train?”

He knew how blood poisoning deaths went. He would sweat and chill, spend days plagued by nightmares, turn into a trembling wreck before eventually expiring in fear. He couldn’t let his men tend to him; they were his charges, his to protect, herd like cats. He couldn’t cleave to the colonel; he was Monroe’s to serve, to obey loyally, to blur lines but never step over them. He would rather be alone.

Unable to speak, Monroe nodded.

The colonel placed a cold hand on Monroe’s face, turning it to face him. Suddenly his years and frightful sternness were no more. “I want you to know, Matthew,” he whispered, “that you’re a good man. It’s been an honour to serve with you and I would’ve been proud to call you my son.”

Even as the colonel shed tears, Monroe felt his dry. The words came to his ears bland. While the colonel might miss his captain, his soldier, his son-at-the-fort, and all the roles Monroe played, he wouldn’t miss Monroe. Not honestly. He would miss his tool.

Monroe turned his eyes away, ashamed.

Eventually, the colonel took his hand from Monroe and stood, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  
  


Monroe had left quietly and without fanfare. He hadn’t told any of his boys he was leaving. They would expect him to hang on, propping up their fearless leader, their older brother, their captain, even as he deteriorated. Monroe had no intention of deteriorating. 

With a single light suitcase, he rode the supply wagons back to the train station. Every jolt and sway of the wagon turned him green. Between the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the cumulative headache of being drunk for four days, it was a miracle the return trip to San Francisco didn’t kill him outright.

The crew aboard the supply train gave him ample room, as though fearful his death was catching. It was a thankfully short journey before Monroe found himself on the familiar cobbles of the harbour town.

He knew the streets well, had half lived on them in his youth. At every corner, more people. Mostly men, rough lookers down from the mountains and looking for a boat or train back home. The city was short, no Chicago or New York, scant buildings higher than two or three stories. Apartments over shops, cheap one-room apartments for working men, horse-drawn wagons cluttering every inch of free winding road. 

Monroe picked his way through the streets at a hobble, turning down familiar roads. Broadway. Osgood. A narrow alley packed tightly with red brick buildings, every window grated over with iron bars like a prison. Girls and crooks filled the one-way road, hissing their offers as he passed.

He found the door and climbed the stairs to the apartment. Every step rung in his shoulder, a terrible burning pain. He sweated — from exertion, he told himself. Three flights of stairs was no laughing matter.

Apartment 38. He produced a worn brass key from his pocket, surprised it still fit, and opened the door. He dropped his suitcase and let the silence greet him. He hadn’t had leave in nearly fifteen years, since he had left home as a new orphan at the age of twelve. It was as he had left it. Kitchen to the left, hallway to the right, narrow windows showing panels of light. Utensils in the kitchen, untouched, blanket folded on the chair, corner of the rug turned over, drapes half shut. The apartment belonged to dust and cobwebs. Near all of it felt grey, the life of it all bleached out by the years, like a mausoleum, a crypt.

Monroe amused himself by wondering if this was what the colonel had had in mind.

The fridge was barren of food, but his mother’s drink was where he had left it. He uncorked one of the dusty bottles of brown liquor and tried to give it the respect of a taste before downing it. But he couldn’t have said whether it was whiskey, bourbon, or scotch. It burned and took away the sharpness of the pain. He had a script for morphine, but preferred to drink.

The shadows in the room lengthened and darkened and, quite suddenly, he found himself holding an empty bottle in the darkness. The bottle slipped from his hand to join its fellows on the floor with a gentle clink. Laughter echoed past the muffled windows.

Monroe’s stomach twisted, empty but without hunger.

Ignoring it, he stripped his clothes best he could one-handed, flinching as his coat and shirt slipped down his left shoulder, and crawled into bed. It was past the time to care about old bandages. Tomorrow was a new day, solitude his only mercy, and he could enjoy his time then — drink, those new restaurants, girls maybe. He didn’t have much money — he could check the bank account, maybe he had enough for a girl.

Breath rattled through his lungs. The bed he crawled into had been the one he shared with his mother. A decade and a half without her warmth in it, he swore it smelled like her. She lived in every wall, both memory and dreams of a woman he never knew — the pretty woman with curled hair who bought sweets for Christmas, the frizzy haired drunk with rheumy eyes who didn’t speak for weeks at a time unless it was to scream, the cold hand taking his forehead’s temperature, melodies and songs half remembered as a boy before his father went to war.

He was burning up. Sweating the fever out. Yes, of course, that was why his pillows were wet.

Monroe did not visit downtown with all its new shops tomorrow, or the next day, or even next week. He purged every memory of his mother from the apartment, revolted to see her knitting still with needles stuck in the balls, her finished scarves, her clothes in the wardrobe, her chipped teacup. Every momento filled him with rage and soon her apartment — for he could not bare to think of it as “his” anymore than he could have when he was twelve — was littered with scraps of torn cloth, broken china and glass.

Breathing hard, vision blurred, Monroe cried as much from the pain in his shoulder as from anger. Damn that woman. Had she still lived, he might not be here dying now.

The image of her corpse, nesting in the corner amongst her empty bottles like a bird, made him hurl his half-empty bottle. It shattered, spilling its cheap alcohol across the wood.

As a boy, Monroe had screamed so loud he woke half the building. Some man had brought a doctor up, who in turn called a mortician to clean away the body.

“Who’s gonna come get me?” he asked the empty room.

There was a knock on the door.

Monroe jumped, then flushed. Some neighbour had likely heard him curse and that bottle smash. He opened the door and blinked twice.

A peculiar man stood outside. He held himself remarkably still and strong, every inch of him etched in a sternness that the colonel might’ve admired. He wore a three-piece so black it seemed to eat the light, a bowler hat, and a neatly trimmed and curled moustache. He wasn’t much any taller or older than Monroe but for some impossible reason, Monroe flinched as he met the stranger’s eye.

“I’ll try to keep it down,” said Monroe, moving to close the door.

The strange man raised an eyebrow. “I’m not here to berate you, Mr Monroe, I’m here to make you an offer.”

“There’s nothing you can offer me,” he said, pushing the door closed again.

The stranger caught the door with a gloved hand and a surprising strength. “Do you want to die, Mr Monroe?” he asked blandly. “I believe you still have much to offer this world.”

Monroe licked his lips. He didn’t know what, but some deep part of his mind told him  _ something was wrong _ . “Who are you?”

“Alastair Fowler.”

“What’s your offer, Fowler?” he asked with a snarl. “Some miracle cure and all it’ll cost me is my other arm?”

Fowler’s lips quirked in what might’ve been a flash of a smile. “Must we speak on the step like ingrates?”

Monroe let the door swing open. “Whatever.” He searched for another bottle and, finding one, settled at the small kitchen table. Fowler closed the door and sat opposite. It was those shoes, Monroe decided. So shiny he could’ve shaved in them. “Want a drink? I don’t got much,” he said, taking a swig.

“I’m perfectly alright, Mr Monroe,” said Fowler stiffly.

“Then, what’re you here for? I don’t exactly have all the time in the world.” 

“It’s a fine thing that as a matter of fact,  _ I  _ do,” said Fowler with a slow smile.

“What you—?” Monroe felt the bottle slip from his hand and it was only by being able to convince himself it was an illusion that he caught it.

Hidden along the twin lines of perfectly smooth, white teeth in the smile Alastair Fowler showed were two protruding fangs. Like a cat’s, sharp and needle-like, poking into his lower lip.

But it wasn’t an illusion.

“What do you know of the vampire, Mr Monroe?” asked Fowler.

Monroe had never found himself sobering faster in his entire life. “I know I just met one,” he said weakly. “What…”

“ _ Silence _ ,” commanded Fowler, and Monroe felt his tongue leaden. “I belong to a secret society of Cainites, the inheritors of the legacy of immortality and power. I have chosen to bring you into this world where we guide humanity in the shadows. Consider this your second chance to… make something of yourself.” Fowler threw a distasteful sneer at the ruins of the apartment.

“Give me a break,” snapped Monroe, “it’s been a week from hell.”

A hand lashed out before he could blink. Clawed fingers gripped his left shoulder, tearing through the bandages with a powerful strength. His grip was cold, not like a human with cold hands, but like a creature that gave off cold instead of heat. Monroe let out a shrill cry.

“You will not talk to me like that again, Mr Monroe,” warned Fowler in a low voice. “I am an Eighth Generation Cainite of the Clan of Kings and your only chance to survive this week.”

Something had shifted in Fowler’s face. The eyes burned darkly and sunk into their sockets, the lips curled in an animalistic snarl, and the fangs thickened from delicate cat-like points to the canines of a wolf. Nothing in his face suggested at humanity.

With horror, Monroe watched as Fowler withdrew his hand and, inspecting the blood tinged nails, gave them a thoughtful lick.

Monroe panted, still seeing spots. He nodded fearfully. “Alright, I think I got the message, even if I didn’t get half those words. I suppose there’s a presentation I can attend. Sir.”

Fowler tilted his head, as though considering whether he was worth the bother of eating. “I am of Clan Ventrue, one of the thirteen great clans of the night, and ours is the honour of the knights of old Europe, the  _ noblesse oblige _ of royalty, the pride of the ancient Roman Empire.”

Monroe reconsidered the bottle, even as the words ached in his chest. “Are you sure you got the right guy? I mean, you’re right, I haven’t done much.”

“Mr Matthew Monroe, Captain of the Seventeenth Company, Third Battalion,” said Fowler, “but it’s not for your military experience that I credit you with the Embrace. Rather, it is how you arrived there. A boy of twenty-two, how many colonels would’ve given you command? You are a liar, but graceful with it like an actor. You’re clever, with a mind for strategy and a heart for command. Mr Monroe, you would make a fine Ventrue and it is my honour to save you from death’s door and bring you into the eternal brotherhood.”

Monroe set the bottle down. “Alright. I’m in. How would you do it?”

“First, you must ready yourself for your next life,” insisted Fowler. “Every night for the rest of eternity, you will look as you do right now. Cut your hair, shave that miserable beard, and trim your nails. I will return at dusk tomorrow night.”

Monroe frowned at his nails as Fowler left as quickly as he had come. To think, it was his ability to lie to command that made a vampire take note. Such a stupid notion. Whatever Fowler was, he was clearly insane. Even so, before Monroe retired with the rest of the bottle, he made sure to trim his nails and shave what patchy beard had grown.

Monroe spent much of the next day sober, pacing across the floor so long he expected to plunge into the apartment beneath any moment. At last, in the late afternoon sun, he struggled himself into a shower and clean clothes and found a barber down the road.

This late in the day — was it the weekend? — there was an open chair and the barber, a plump man with no hair himself to speak of, sat him before the mirror.

“What’ll it be today, fine sir?” he asked cheerily.

What sort of hairstyles did vampires wear anyways?

“Just trim a bit. Neat. And be careful round my left shoulder, injured it pretty bad.”

The barber took up his silver scissors and began to work. “Haven’t seen you around the neighbourhood before. I figured I knew all the locales by this point.”

“I haven’t been back home in a while,” said Monroe. “Was serving in the army.”

The scissors paused. “Mighty good of you, young man, to be doing that. Have a pretty girl waiting for you back here to make you an honest man?”

“Wish I did,” he admitted. “Still in the market.”

Did vampires have girlfriends? In the stories, they were always preying on virgins. He struggled to think of Mr Fowler having a Mrs Fowler, or even a kidnapped virgin locked up somewhere.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble,” the barber promised. “Are you going to the New Year celebrations in town?”

“New Years?” said Monroe with a start. Had it been that long?

“There’ll be lots of pretty girls there,” he said. “Have any plans for tonight?”

“Nothing special. I’ll think on it.”

All logic said that Fowler was just a tonic salesman, if a bit eccentric and pushy, but Monroe remembered the strength as he gripped him, the inhuman anger in his eyes. Perhaps Fowler wouldn’t even come tonight.

Satisfied with the haircut, Monroe tipped the barber with what coins he had scrouged up in the apartment, and braved the chill San Francisco wind. Ravenous, he picked up a pair of hot dogs from a vendor and ate them on his way back. The sun was setting fast.

He tossed the balled up hot dog foil in a distant corner of the apartment. If Fowler was right and could heal him, then he could clean up when he was feeling better. If Fowler was wrong, then this whole mess would be someone else’s problem.

Monroe fingered one of his last bottles thoughtfully as he watched the sun disappear over the horizon and plunge the streets into darkness. He didn’t have to wait long. 

_ Knock _ . A short, smart rap on the door.

“Come in,” shouted Monroe.

Fowler stood there, in the same three-piece suit and hat he had worn the previous night. He wrinkled his nose as though he smelled something foul. To his credit, he well might’ve.

“So, what magic potion are you going to have me drink?” asked Monroe with a terse smile. “What’ll you have me do?”

Fowler removed his hat and brushed off a few flakes of snow from it. “There’s nothing at all you can do, Mr Monroe, aside from die. Don’t worry. We won’t wait for that wound to kill you.” He produced a pistol from beneath his coat and snarled in a way no human ever could.

Monroe leapt to his feet and, despite the screaming pain in his shoulder, raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa, listen here. Whatever game you’re playing — whatever you want, you can take it. I have the apartment, a little money. Just leave me to die in  _ peace _ .” He was almost sobbing by the end. 

Fowler advanced on him. “I was about to Embrace you in the traditional manner. Such deaths from the Kiss are exquisite, but you need to learn a lesson and learn it well.”

Monroe struggled to hold himself together. Never in the military had he ever been so frightened. He wasn’t so scared of the bullet, but what Fowler intended to do to him after. “What?”

“You will show your superiors the proper obeisance.”

_ Bang _ .

Monroe herd the shot rather than felt it. He stumbled back and clutched his stomach. The pain in his gut muted his shoulder for the moment. At once, his hands were full of blood. Every breath poured more blood out of him, warm, wet, sticky. He collapsed back into the chair.

When he opened his eyes again, Fowler stood over him, the rage gone for the moment. “How does it feel?” he asked mildly.

“It  _ hurts _ , you bastard,” said Monroe through gritted teeth.

_ Bang _ .

The bullet struck his left hand, shattering the bones, and he screamed.

“I would far rather punish you once you’ve obtained a more durable form,” said Fowler, “but needs must, I suppose. If you do not survive the Embrace, I must let you know you brought it upon yourself.”

Monroe breathed as shallowly as he dared. A burning acid itched the back of his throat and he felt blood trickle up into his mouth. He had minutes. Every beat of his heart echoed in a rhythm of pain through him.

Fowler pulled a chair next to him and, with a firm hand, turned Monroe to face him. His face was utterly expressionless, as though the display gave him neither joy nor pain to inflict. “Life as a kindred,” he said, “is to know a life filled with pain. This will not be the greatest pain you know in your decades and centuries to come. Every Ventrue has their place in the clan and Camarilla and knows it. You will come to know yours, too. I did not lie when I said I expect you to become a great Ventrue, but the road will not be easy.”

Monroe licked his lips and found his tongue coppery with blood. He nodded. “I need to die first, right, sir?”

Fowler nodded. “And then I will awaken you.”

Monroe shut his eyes and gave into it. He let his other hand fall from his stomach as his blood spilled freely. The pain echoed in his shoulder, his shattered hand, his stomach, but he could endure. It was a quicker death certainly than letting the infection drive him mad. He had had a drink, a hot dog — two, even. It wasn’t the worst of last days.

His awareness faded slowly, until.

Silence. The nothingness that can only be recognised once left, much like a deep sleep. Comforting blackness. Quiet. Warmth.

Before he could see again, his eyes opened, his mouth swallowed. Swallowed more. His hands curled into claws, grasping for whatever provided the drink. A monstrous growl echoed from his belly and sight returned. Hunger. Hunger.

Fowler had a strong grip on him, one hand digging into his hair, the other muffling his mouth with his wrist. Yet the drink kept flowing. It answered his desperate hunger, tickling it, never satisfying. It was heavenly, a pleasure that made him ache for more.

And then, it was gone. Fowler stepped back, every muscle tensed, and Monroe whimpered. He groaned and wrapped an arm around his stomach. But that wasn’t where the Hunger was. It pounded in his head, his heart, his very bones. Never, not even as a boy when his mother spent their money on drink, had he ever been so hungry.

“I am… so hungry,” he confessed. He had scarcely eaten since he had returned home, surviving on cheap old liquor and the occasional tin in the cupboard. But neither seemed appetizing. He wanted… meat. A roast, rare and bright red in the middle, seeping blood when cut. The meaty juices pooling on the plate, to mix into mashed potatoes. He would drink them plain, that salty, heavy—Not even rare,  _ raw _ , just warmed through, hot and vital— “What did you  _ do _ to me?”

“Welcome to your new life, childe,” said Fowler with something approaching fondness. He sat down next to him again, but didn’t wear his coat or jacket. His sleeves had been rolled up. Monroe hadn’t realised how pale Fowler was, but the bright red on his wrist was stark like blood on snow.

Blood.

As soon as he identified it, the Hunger crowed, roared like a living thing, like another mind, another voice in his head. 

_ Feed. Feed. Feed _ .

Monroe panted but it brought him no more comfort than the arm around his stomach. His lungs filled with air, exhaling it, but didn’t seem to absorb it.

“I — this sounds crazy, mister, but—”

“It’s alright, childe,” said Fowler. “Come, you can drink.”

Monroe knocked over his chair in his haste. He moved fast, too fast, and ended up on the floor, crawling in his desperation. He put his lips to Fowler’s bloody wrist and drank. A hand stroked his hair, drawing him closer. Monroe couldn’t help but moan at the pleasure, the satisfaction of sating the hunger. 

In the distance, the city clock struck midnight amid crowds of celebrators in the heart of San Francisco. A new year had begun.


	2. 1892: Appraisal

#  **1892**

##  **Appraisal**

  
  


Monroe had grown adept at working down his checklist while doing almost anything and everything. Two steps behind Mr Fowler, one to the right. Chin up, shoulders square, do not pay the kine any heed. Do not breathe, do not blink, do not move without purpose, do not speak without first being addressed. Of late, his checklist had grown considerably. Tonight was his appraisal. His coming out. His doctoral presentation to the city’s assembled Ventrue in hopes of being accepted. A distant part of his mind roved over facts and figures, names and dates, in a clipped concise voice.

Mr Fowler led them into the Palmer House of Chicago. Monroe gave himself the briefest moment of letting his eyes wander — it was better than letting the surprise show on his face. The Palmer House was opulent, even compared to the other locations Mr Fowler had taken them throughout his education. Baltimore, New Orleans, San Francisco least of all, but the Palmer House had a manner of wealth that made all within feel that much smaller and less important. 

Monroe’s thumb twitched, a subtle movement that expressed his fear. As they entered the elevator, the attendant knew his place and operated the elevator to a floor that did not exist. The elevator jerked before it moved and Monroe ground his teeth in an effort to hold himself.

He watched the three of them in the mirrored walls. Mr Fowler, as always, in his ink black three-piece, he had traded his bowler for a top hat on hair thick with pomade, and the shiniest shoes known to Caine’s kind. Even after the years, Monroe thought the formal look suited him ill, but Mr Fowler tolerated no complaints. And so, on the most formal night of his life, he wore a dark tail coat with white bowtie and gloves and shoes that he spent half a night polishing. And a damn top hat. He felt a fraud.

Mr Fowler smiled as they met eyes in the mirror. “You’ll do well.” The three soft words spoke to the leash Monroe’s Beast wore. Years of regularly drinking his sire’s blood had created an artificial bond. How artificial, he did not know. But the words blossomed a pride in his chest he hadn’t felt for two decades.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “You have faith in me?”

“I have faith you know what shall await you should you fail,” said Mr Fowler.

Monroe kept eye contact —  _ always always keep eye contact _ — but his fingers tingled at the memory. The finger joints had regrown in the day, with sufficient blood, and his body had returned to the state he had awoken from death in twenty years ago. What remained was the memory of the punishment.

“I will not let you down, sir,” he swore.

Mr Fowler let his eyes go, such was the privilege of age. “There will be special guests at the Board tonight,” he said. “Aside from Prince Lodin and Mistress Gregors, Archon Pieterzoon is resting in Chicago for a fortnight.” Something flickered in his eyes. Once, Monroe would’ve called it Bestial, animalistic, but it was an entirely human cruelty. “And I do promise you that if you humiliate me before the childe of Hardestadt, I will punish you before I reclaim your blood.”

“I gave you my word, sir,” said Monroe plainly, ignoring the threat best he could. “A Ventrue does not break his word. I will not let you down, sir.”

The elevator continued its climb in silence, before opening to a new grand floor, above the common rooms. The floors were luxurious carpet, the walls papered with bronze and golden flowers. Baroque portraits of famed kindred — Ventrue, he realised as he noted the names — hung on every scrap of wall. As they pushed through a set of heavy doors, a long room greeted them. At the end of the room, a table set with fifteen chairs. The far wall was full of windows, overlooking the city of Chicago, a spectacular daytime view and a commanding nighttime one.

As they entered, everyone stood. Cold hands were shaken, greetings exchanged, and lineages long known espoused. Everyone ignored Monroe. He was beneath their notice. Eyes glossed over him. He wasn’t offered a hand or word. There wasn’t a chair for him. He remained standing as the other kindred returned to their seats. Some drank from the cups set before them. 

Monroe knew Prince Lodin, squared jaw and gaunt like a corpse, yellow hair and thin lips in a perpetual line of disapproval. His grossly obese childer, Drummund and Ballard, attended him immediately. The other Ventrue in attendance were expected; masters of local industry and art. Monroe knew them by name, face, and their operations, which left the short man at the foot of the table to be the archon. Shorter, assuredly, as he was from a time when men were shorter. Like many kindred, he was impossibly pale, but wore it well, ghostly skin blending into hair so light it was nearly white and blue eyes all but colourless behind brass-rimmed glasses.

Ballard began the Board meeting, reading notes, and recognising each attendee by name and lineage. As he droned on, wandering eyes inspected Monroe and he was reminded of the duality of the phrase “invited to dinner”. Yet these were Ventrue, his clanmates, cousins in blood. He had nothing to fear.

If he managed to execute tonight.

“The Ventrue Board of Chicago recognises a new childe, set to make his case and an accounting of himself and his deeds through the agoge set by Mr Alastair Fowler, Eighth of the Line of Artemis Orthia. Let us hear his case.”

Fifteen sets of eyes swiveled to fixate on him. Monroe bowed and addressed them each in turn.

“... honourable Cainites of the Clan of Kings, it is by shared blood I offer myself — blood, mind, and deed — for your appraisal. If I am found wanting, let my blood be reclaimed by he who offered me such a gift and by you who find me unworthy of it.”

Slow. Slower. He was speaking far too fast. Then again, he did just sign off his own death certificate. Measured words, weigh them all carefully. Do not stutter, do not halt. Allow words their scheduled pauses for emphasis and gravity. Speak confidently, with humility, but beyond reproach. No emotion save pride. 

“Without this shared blood, the Clan Ventrue would be adrift, and so I place my claims of blood first for your appraisal. I come from a line of honourable Cainites who have devoted their lives to serving their fellows, from the dawn of the age of our society to the modern nights.

“I claim my lineage to Artemis Orthia, the first and most beloved childe of Ventru, and the Goddess of Sparta. During the classical age, Artemis was the first to set herself as a god among mortals. The city of Sparta worshipped her thus and she modeled them into the ideal mortal form — devoted servants with mastery over their minds and bodies. As the flawless model of Sparta garnered jealousy by the disorganised Brujah of Athens, Artemis lead her city to victory in the First Brujah War. She sired her favourite childe, Lysander the Blood of Gods, in the winter of 395BC as a celebrated mortal general and it was he who awoke her from her torpid state to lead the Second Brujah War. Hers was the first life lost to the war, and it was Lysander who claimed the last Brujah head.

“Master Democritus was born in the heart of our Roman Empire in the third century BC. Lysander soon found himself drawn to the enduring calm and diplomatic mind of Democritus, as he served as a senator in Rome. Democritus became Lysander’s constant companion, accepting the Embrace in spring 214BC as a greater way to serve his patron. It was Democritus’s rational spirit and his outreach to the fearful Brujah of Carthage that ultimately bound Triole beneath the salted earths and rid the Ventrue of the blighted Carthage. For the honour of the newly born Camarilla, Domcritus was offered the role of first Ventrue Justicar and served from 1504 to 1754 and now rests in a well-deserved torpor, awaiting his next lifetime to serve the clan to which he devoted nearly two millennia.

“It was during Master Democritus’s illustrious term as Justicar that he Embraced Madame Jenine Porte, a lady in the court of Bordeaux and spy in the service of Toreador Prince François Villon of Paris. Madame Porte had been born on July 2, 1499, and ghouled shortly before her sixteenth birthday by the Parisian prince. Prince Villon offered his favoured ghoul and mortal paramour for services rendered by the Ventrue Justicar. With little training before her first assignment, Madame Porte was Embraced on August 1, 1566 and eliminated a coven of infernalists. Quickly making a name for herself as a capable archon, Democritus knew she would make a finer asset to Clan Ventrue in the courts of Toreador-dominated France. It is there she has lived until the modern nights, ruling as undisputed Ventrue Primogen in the heart of the City of Lights.

“It was Master Alastair Fowler who sired me into the clan. He was born to a noble family of merchant bankers in Paris, France on August 5, 1713. It was by his cunning with modern finances that Madame Porte saw fit to grant the Embrace on November 21, 1739. Master Fowler involved himself heavily in Camarilla business, including assisting his sire in securing Prince François Villon’s crown during an Anarch revolt. Master Fowler, freed by his sire, sought the New World of new opportunities and ingratiated himself as a modern-night military industrialist.”

Monroe paused to take stock of his captive audience. Captive in the sense that they were unable, by social protocol, to leave but not that they showed any great interest. No one was obviously bored. That would be poor manners. But there were a lot of narrowed eyes, raised chins, crossed arms, and blank masks looking back at him. The lines in Mr Fowler’s forehead deepened, a sure sign that, while he might not be pleased, he wasn’t offended.

Pace yourself, Monroe warned himself sternly. Not even halfway through.

“I was born in California, on March 13, 1847, and to a family of no great name or deed. I bore my mortal years without Cainite patronage, overcame my struggles without hope of greater things to come, and bettered my world and charges to the best of my ability. I served in the American military for a decade and a half, gaining command of seventeen young boys, and leading them to victories across the plains. In the spirit of Artemis of Sparta, I encouraged my charges to better themselves, not only for my benefit but for theirs. It was through my contacts and influence in high command that I gained the attention of Master Alastair Fowler. It was nineteen years ago to the night — December 31, 1873 — that he approached me and invited me into Clan Ventrue.

“Before you, the local representatives of the Directorate, I claim the name of Matthew Monroe, Cainite of the Clan of Kings, Ninth of the Line of Artemis Orthia, Childe of Alastair Fowler. Grandchilde of Jenine Porte, Great Grandchilde of Democritus, Great Great Grandchilde of Lysander, Great Great Great Grandchilde of Artemis Orthia, Great Great Great Great Grandchilde of Ventru.”

There was no clapping, no standing ovation, no smiles or recognition that he had somehow passed the mid-way of his appraisal. Only the archon, directly in front of him, gave any indication — a small, curt nod of encouragement. Monroe hoped it was encouragement. Had he saliva, his mouth would be long dry.

“Master Alastair Fowler has done the Clan of Kings the highest honour: devoting time to ensure the childe he produced is prepared to give the best version of themselves to the clan. Nineteen years have been spent on my education. Years that have not been wasted. The nature of books and classes have taught me the order of business, leadership, ruling, histories of kine and Cainites, and rounded my soul with learnings of philosophy and art. The test at the height of my agoge I chose to undertake was something no book or teacher might’ve taught me, yet it was benefited by all the years prior.

“The world of mortals is changing by the day, while we sleep. As the New World strives the emulate the Old, there is still progress to be made, the Wilds of the West to be tamed. While kindred in elysium have scorned and decried the ‘Second Industrial Revolution’, it is where I have begun my operations.

“Progress will always outstrip the naysayers, and my success is proof of that. It has been my guiding hand that has let the kine operate in our favour tonight. The Illinois Steel Company found itself the recent beneficiary of several government contracts of steel manufacturing, which in turn the government have used to expand the federal railways to facilitate trade and national production. Union Pacific and Norfolk Rails, both new companies under my controlling interest, have expanded the federal railway system around major cities and sites of kindred interest. Chiefly, Chicago and extending the reach of Cainites readily into the west. Already, the effects of greater urbanization and trade can be felt in the city—”

“ _ Hmph _ .”

Monroe just about swallowed his tongue. He lost his track, the smooth, confident rhythm and simply stared.

The new prince of Chicago, the mysterious and ruthless Lodin, had greeted the opener of his operations with an approving  _ hmph _ . No doubt, it was approving. Startling thing, as when Monroe had sought his permission and told him his goals, Lodin had seemed wholly indifferent. Lodin’s strength wasn’t in his blood or age, but his fingers in his city’s industry — the railways only expanded his tenuous power.

The silence quickly turned judging, glaring, and Monroe felt a red itch creep up his collar. The Beast sensed danger, knew his life was forfeit, he lost his place—go, flee,  _ run _ .

_ No _ . He clamped down on it. If they were going to kill them, they were damn well going to sit there and listen to him first.

“Since I began my operations, Chicago’s kine population has tripled, almost entirely a force of working men and women in manufacturing. Higher in demand than ever before, now Chicago has ways to transfer the products of manufacturing to other cities. Unwitting kine companies have filled in the blanks.

“Expanding easy access and communication to the west coast has merely shored our bet, once kine expand fully in America from coast to coast. Such an advance is not unrealistic, but inevitable and it is imperative that we arrive there first. The rails have brought goods, support, and workers looking to begin new lives into California, which may serve a great many cities and provide a rich resource for young Cainites to strike out in due time.

“I began this operation with scarcely one hundred dollars in my bank account, the last of the savings of my mortal life, and now have amassed a fortune of two-point-four million, with returns expected on my investments for decades to come.”

Monroe paused, but the prince didn’t have any more comments to put him at unease. He thought it right to leave out his years of scheming money from rich mortals and swindling help from industrial kindred in elysium. While the second might be a credit to him, the first maybe not so much.

“In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, I am a product of my own work ethic, as much as I am a product of my sire, my rearing, and my blood. It is with great pride I offer myself to the Clan of Kings.”

Monroe bowed once more. No one looked impressed. Then again, no one looked disappointed. Not even Mr Fowler.

“Return to the antechamber, Mr Monroe,” said Prince Lodin, “we will summon you once we have come to our decision.”

With one more shaky bow — more reflex than practice — Monroe struggled to not bolt out the room at high speeds. The double doors closed soundlessly behind him and the distant voices began. He leaned against the wall, struggling to find some way —  _ any _ way — of physically relieving the pressure of intense emotions. He couldn’t pant, breathe, cry, sob, or any other manner familiar to kine. Punching walls helped, but this was the last place he ought do it.

Monroe rubbed the stiff spot on his left shoulder, where the arm met chest. It ached in the early evenings, a good ache. It reminded him where he had come from.

_ Run, run, you can still make it. Come on, they don’t respect you. Look at you, bowing and scraping — pitiful. _

Monroe dug his own nails into the spot where Fowler had gripped him tight all those years ago. The sharp flash of pain — so unfamiliar these nights — silenced his wayward Beast.

Do not pace, he warned himself. But as the minutes passed by, he found it harder to resist the urge. Ten. Fifteen. The moments slipped through his fingers. He was utterly at their mercy. Already, he had learned quickly that sometimes he did his best, gave everything he had, and it still was not enough.

The doors opened.

Mr Fowler stood in them and, though it wouldn’t be fitting to show fear and ask what had happened, Monroe knew that dark face.  _ Something  _ had happened. And it would be Monroe who paid for his displeasure. He swallowed his fear, made his decision, and followed the sharp nod of his sire.

The Board waited as their shoes clicked against the floor. His sire took his seat. Monroe inclined his head to the prince and folded his hands, awaiting his fate. 

Lodin made a show of inspecting his papers, as though he had taken notes. “Mr Monroe.”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Are you worthy of the inheritance of Clan Ventrue and all who came before you?”

Had Monroe’s heart still beat, it would’ve stuttered to a prompt stop. He had made it. The prince would ask three questions, merely as a formality. Technically, they could still declare him unfit and reclaim the blood, but he was practically in the clear.

“I am, sir.”

“Do you swear to uphold the customs and Traditions of Clan Ventrue and the Camarilla, unto the Final Death?”

“I am, sir.”

“And, if you are granted the privilege to Embrace, will you set the agoge as you have had set unto you, train your childe in our ways, and return to the clan a successor greater than you?” Lodin’s thin lips turned into a cold smile.

It took all Monroe’s willpower to not turn to see how Mr Fowler was taking this. It hadn’t only gone well. It had gone  _ too _ well. He had learned through his time in Chicago and with Ventrue across America, that his sire wasn’t looked on fondly. The reasons were numerous and ultimately petty, but his line was tainted.

“I will, sir.”

“Then, I open the floor,” said the prince. “Any Ventrue unsatisfied or who has questions to put to the childe may speak.”

Nearly a minute of stony silence passed before the archon spoke.

“If I may, I have a question,” he said. A soft Dutch accent clung to his words that somehow made him seem even more menacing.

“Of course, Mr Pieterzoon,” said Lodin.

Monroe turned his eye to the archon and struggled to contain himself as he met those colourless eyes. The archon’s head inclined slightly, as though examining Monroe closely.

“Are you frightened, Mr Monroe?” he asked plainly.

It must’ve been plain to see.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Why?”

There was a wrong answer to this. Clearly, a mere fear of death was insufficient.

“I gave my word to my sire that I would not disappoint him this night. As a Ventrue, I do not break my word, sir.”

The archon nodded, accepting the answer. “Then, if I might ask another?” Lodin nodded his assent as Monroe screamed internally. “In your own succinct words, what does Clan Ventrue stand for, aside from keeping your word?”

This, too, had a wrong answer. Not only that, but a million answers. Monroe’s mind spun through ten thousand years of clan history, of figures, and words half-remembered in Latin.

He had been so close.

Before he realised what he was doing, he took a deep breath to stall. An instinct born of nearly two decades with his sire, he flinched.

“The blood of Clan Ventrue drives us to rule and makes us the most uniquely gifted to do so,” he said slowly, speaking faster as he found his stride. “The crux of leadership is in the obligation the gift presents us with. If we rule, we take upon the responsibility for the kindred below us — whether they be in a coterie or an entire city. Our entire selves are devoted to serve the kindred who put their well-being, the safety of their existence in our hands. It is here, among clanmates, that we put aside our petty differences and band together to do what is right by those in our charge.”

The archon took his glasses off and cleaned them thoughtfully. He turned to Lodin. “I’m satisfied.”

Those two words, more than any conversation that had happened behind closed doors, would’ve ensured Monroe’s survival and he felt a desperate outpouring of thanks to the strange European.

“I, too,” said the prince. “Any others?” Silence counted on until Lodin was content to close it. “Mr Monroe, I concur with what my honoured guest has to say. As Prince of Chicago and Praetor of the Board, I certify your entry into Clan Ventrue. Congratulations, neonate.”

All fifteen of them stood as one. It took Monroe a second to realise why. Ventrue do not sit if one of their own is not. It stunned his heart more than any standing ovation or smiles could have. Unbound by any particular elder, Monroe’s eyes greedily drank the full scene. Lodin’s own childe toddled off into a side room to produce another chair. For the rest of the night, at least, he would be granted a place of honour, next to the prince.

As he made his way over, he was greeted by everyone. Handshakes from the men, hands offered for him to kiss by the women. Fifteen lineages.  _ Tenth of the Line of Antonius of the Dream, Eleventh of the Line of Mithras of London, of Medon, of Alexander, of Artemis Orthia. _ And the archon, merely  _ Childe of Hardestadt the Founder. _ Monroe knew them all, but the respect and approval in their eyes, in their scattered words of encouragement and praise, felt so sweet. Twenty years. Paid off. Finally, he was worthy of it. No longer Fowler’s slave, but a full Ventrue, able to sit on the Board, be  _ part _ of something. 

Lodin shook his hand with a crushing grip and his thin lips turned upwards. “I must say as well, you are correct, on the manner of your involvement with the federal rail system and how Chicago has greatly urbanised. I am in your debt.”

Monroe didn’t let go of the hand promptly. “Pardon me?” 

Lodin flicked his eyes down pointedly and Monroe let go of the hand and sat. On cue, everyone else did. The silence changed, harshened with jealousy.

“While such an accomplishment, in the hands of a storied ancillae or elder, would mean very little,” said Lodin, “I understand the energy and lengths you went to in order to serve your clan and prince.” He pulled a small flat box from a pocket in his jacket. “As a token of my appreciation, I would grant you a minor boon of your choosing.”

Monroe’s mouth drooped open as he stared. “Are you sure?”

Lodin’s mouth twisted into an unkind parody of a smile. “Are you questioning your prince?”

Monroe straightened himself, body and mind. “No, Your Highness, of course not. I accept your boon and will treasure it dearly. Thank you, sir.”

His fingers played over the small linen box in his lap. Blue and gold, as per Ventrue colours. Gold of crowns, blue of blood. The elegant ribbon came undone and what sat within was a pocket watch, carved with a delicate filigree, and his seal. He had a seal. He was a Ventrue, of course he had a seal. The crossed sword and scepter, ringed with nine stars for his generation. It was marked above with a small upside down V in a circle as the symbol of Artemis Orthia, and below by a date. 12/31/1873. 

Overwhelmed and dangerously close to shedding tears of blood, Monroe passed a thumb over the exquisite seal.

“Thank you, sir,” he said dimly. “It is a beautiful gift.”

Lodin nodded to Ballard to continue the meeting, and Ballard said the sweetest words Monroe ever heard.

“The Board recognises Mr Matthew Monroe, Cainite of the Clan of Kings, Ninth of the Line of Artemis Orthia.”


	3. 1944: Revolt

#  **1944**

##  **Revolt**

_I want the Giovanni purged out of Colma_.

Such a simple command. The Giovanni. Necromancers. Independent incestuous corpse-fuckers. Purged. Destroyed. Killed. Colma. The town of cemeteries, of San Francisco’s dead. The Giovanni were not a part of the Camarilla, which made them outlaws and subject to the unwritten vampire law: if you can hold it, you can have it. Then again, the Giovanni and Camarilla had signed the Promise of 1528: stay out of our business and we’ll stay out of yours. The Camarilla treaties were inviolate.

And yet, what had Monroe said to his sire at the Board meeting?

“Huh?”

He flinched even now, thinking on it.

It took Monroe three weeks to plan the assault. The Giovanni, at last count, were only four in the town. Which meant Monroe had eight in his force. Two were his siblings-by-blood, also too fearful of their sire to ask questions. The other five were childer of other powerful Ventrue in the Bay. He was fully aware that they were an expendable force. Most of them were young enough to think it was some great honour, to work for the elders of the clan. They bought it — hook, line, and sinker. Monroe tried not to judge them too harshly.

The door of his car opened and slammed as another joined him. Rough curly hair, a perpetually nasty demeanor, muscled like a schoolgirl’s dream with dark brow and piercing stormy eyes. He smoked a cigarette because he thought it made him look cool and the glowing ember put most kindred at unease. Bartholomew “Barty” Vaughn, eldest childe of a prominent Ventrue and consistent disappointment to his sire. He hung around Anarchs and Brujah and other undesirables, shagged Tremere at elysium, disrupted the socio-political peace.

“Come on, don’t look at me like that,” snapped Barty. “If I have to stay in that car, hearing those baby bats bitch about who’s daddy can beat up who, I’m going to beat one of them into a torpor.”

Monroe loathed how much he adored him.

“Nice to see you, too.” He tapped on the roof, letting his ghoul know he could start driving. “And, by the by, the only person our daddies can beat up is us.”

Barty flinched in a deeply familiar way and took a deep drag on the cigarette. “How long to Colma?”

“Not long enough,” said Monroe bitterly. “We’re passing it off as gang violence come down from the city. Our cops will find drugs, make some interviews for the press — it’ll all work out fine.”

The car sped off down the freeway as it exited the city.

“Sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, there.”

Monroe shrugged and checked his automatic pistol for the fifth time that night. “I’m not any fond of ghosts. I asked if we could let some Tremere in—”

Barty threw back his head and laughed. “What did daddy do to _you_ for that?”

“Nothing good.”

“Did he even tell you why he wants the necromancers out?” he asked.

Monroe shook his head. “You were at that meeting. You know everything I do.”

The car exited the freeway and began to crawl through residential neighbourhoods. Colma wasn’t large, but it seemed that where other cities and towns had parks or green spaces, they just had more cemeteries. Giovanni were always looking for an ample supply of spirits and corpses. Looks like they found it. Monroe’s sleeping conscience tickled him. Had they ever been bothering the Camarilla? Had they broken the Masquerade? Hell, last New Years they’d sent an envoy as an ambassador. Sure, she was creepy as all hell, but nice as far as kindred went.

Monroe was far beyond trusting his sire to make rational judgments on behalf of the kindred he ruled as Ventrue Primogen, but this was hardly the first time Monroe had been sent as a hammer. Normally, it was actually criminals, though.

“Do you think the kids will be able to take it?” asked Barty. His voice lost some of its usual gusto. “You and me, we’ve been around the block for what — seventy years? — we know what’s waiting for us at home if we fuck it up.”

Monroe grimaced. “It’s going to be rough in there.” When Barty didn’t say anything, Monroe felt his hand drawn to his left shoulder again. “I called in a favour with a Tremere, who told me that the Giovanni’s defenses are likely concentrated during the day, to protect them during daysleep. We shouldn’t expect a lot of traps, but instead four very awake and pissed off kindred fighting for their unlives.”

“Shit trade off,” grumbled Barty.

“Is it?” he snapped. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sending Ventrue ghouls into a building armed with traps not one of them can see, let alone disarm.”

Barty blew smoke in his face. Just as he opened his mouth, the ghoul driver called back, “Sir, where would you like me to park?”

“A few blocks away,” said Monroe. “We’ll need to coordinate.”

Car doors opened and slammed as the Ventrue exited into the parking lot, but Barty laid a hand on him before he left.

“I don’t wanna risk my hide based on what a bunch of ten-year-olds think they can do,” warned Barty.

Monroe knew he had a few months age on Barty and couldn’t bring himself to look his friend in the eye. “I know. But you do realise this is _our_ mission, I was just allowed to bring another six for ghost bait.”

“That’s rough.”

“That’s our lot.”

Monroe shrugged off the hand and left the car, pistol in hand. The young Ventrue stood in grubby jeans, rough and torn trousers, t-shirts without ties and jackets. Made for a nice change. Supposedly, they were gang members from the city. Monroe dragged a box from the trunk and began handing out stakes and shotguns, pistols. He wondered if it would truly matter. Three heavy wood axes between them. He gave one to Barty and kept one for himself.

“Unless you prefer a sword,” said Monroe frostily. “I don’t trust anyone with fire.”

Barty took the axe and bit back whatever comment lingered on his tongue. Always unspoken, it was the Ventrue code. _I against my brother, my brother and I against my cousin, and all of us against the stranger._

Monroe deftly rehashed the tactics they had discussed back in the city. It was imperative to leave no survivors. Giovanni Embraced from their ghouls, ghouling only their mortal bloodlines. Not a single member of the household could survive to know that the Ventrue of San Francisco had broken the Promise.

Colma was a quiet town, especially considering how close it was to the city. The houses gave each other wide berths, each of them staring out with two window eyes. As they walked, the guns clicked as safeties turned off, cartridges were checked, and rounds chambered.

Monroe gestured to two of his siblings, who hurried ahead. The Giovanni house, at the edge of town, surrounded on all sides by cemeteries, was close. Two floors, a modest dwelling of paneled wood and porch. The two he sent ahead scampered along the perimeter, disappearing from sight. City plans said there was a backdoor.

The rest of the group split into their divisions. Barty kept a close tab on Monroe, as he walked up to the front door. Locked. A quick jerk and the lock snapped, the door opening easily.

The battle was over in minutes. Four startled vampires staked into mute, immobile torpor with a minimum of gunfire. Monroe had been banking on the Giovanni thinking they were safe, cloistered so close to the Camarilla. After all, the Promise was inviolate.

The ghouls, of course, were a bigger problem.

For all intents and purposes, they were essentially human — but they were still necromancers, human sorcerers with access to whatever ghostly forces the Giovanni had set up. Ghouls who would return to the nearest Giovanni and tell them of the attack. Ghouls without Beasts, who didn’t hiss and snarl like beasts when threatened. Instead, they pled, whimpered, and cried with a dozen guns pointed on them.

Monroe had managed to get his force to round them up, pick off whatever strange spell components they had, and hold them under aim. But the young Ventrue, shaken as they were, exchanged fearful looks. Suddenly, their grand battle against evil necromancers on behalf of their honoured sires looked and felt a lot more like murder.

“If any of them are your tastes, feel free to feed to completion,” said Monroe blandly. He locked eyes with the loudest one, who wailed like a banshee at the announcement. “ _Shut up_.” And she was silenced.

None of the Ventrue took him up on the offer.

 _I want the Giovanni purged out of Colma_.

With leaden limbs, Monroe raised his own pistol and executed the ghouls. Quick, theoretically painless, a single bullet in the forehead. Their necks snapped back, the wall behind them splattered with blood and brains. The old ghouls deteriorated, as though the Final Death, the years catching up to their forms as they withered and then rotted as corpses. Young ghouls simply slid against the wall.

“Sweep the house,” he ordered. “Count the sleeping quarters against the number.”

The Ventrue scattered, almost fleeing from his sight.

“Your men are all alive,” said Barty. “That’s good, at least.”

“I told myself that if none of us died, I would consider it a victory,” said Monroe, still looking at the corpse of the young ghoul. He put away his gun, but couldn’t tear his eyes away. His sire kept a household of ghouls, who he had access to. There was a cruel monstrosity to bring humans into their world, so weak, so fragile, and pit them against inhuman kindred.

Barty lit another cigarette, tossing the spent match at the staked Giovanni at their feet. “How about I take care of the necromancers?” He hefted his axe.

“I…” Monroe struggled for words. “I hadn’t realised that somewhere along the way I had lost feeling for mortals. That was easy — too easy.”

Barty swung the axe. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. The staked Giovanni succumbed to the Final Death as the animating power of vitae left their bodies. The years took hold and they withered into old men, rotting into old corpses, then skeletons as the flesh dissolved.

One Ventrue, Monroe’s sibling, came back into the family room. “Sir, we’ve counted the sleeping quarters — four Giovanni, nine ghouls.”

Nine.

Monroe felt his unmoving blood turn to ice as he turned to the ghouls. Eight. One of them had escaped. Somewhere in the chaos, or maybe he had run an errand. But there was now no one alive who could say who the surviving ghoul was or where he might’ve gone.

“Fuck,” Monroe said to himself. He passed a hand through his hair and fell into a familiar place: giving orders. “You and you, go into town. Bring him back to the house with Dominate. You and you, search the cemeteries. Kill him if you find him. You and you, get back to the cars and close off the roads from Colma. No one leaves.”

The Ventrue scrambled to obey him. As soon as they left, Monroe emptied the rest of his clip into the fleshy rotted corpses of the Giovanni ghouls. Fresh corpse juice spluttered into the air with every bullet. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

The Beast was at the very edge of a frenzy. Seventy years drinking his sire’s blood had only tormented the Beast further.

 _You disappointed him. He’ll kill you. How_ dare _you fuck this up? He gave you a clear order. He made you, saved your life — everything you are is his. You owe him your soul and you can’t even…_

The Beast quickly lost coherence and dropped into a terrible cycle of fear and anger. A growl echoed in Monroe’s chest, but by the time it left his mouth it was a pitiful whimper.

“Hey, Monroe.”

Monroe turned back to Barty, who held a revolver.

A .44 slammed into Monroe’s chest. He stumbled back at the bullet. The pain sharpened his senses and his fear was silenced, giving way to confusion.

“Ow?” he said pointedly, pulling at the hole in his t-shirt. “You… you shot me?”

Barty tucked his pistol away again with a smirk. “It was a trick a Brujah taught me to get someone off the edge. Was worried you were a little too far gone, though.”

Monroe winced as he dug the bullet out with his nails, healing the flesh around it. “I’ll pay for this,” he said seriously. “By God — or Caine — or whoever, damn it, I’ll pay.”

He threw the bullet and it clinked against the hardwood.

The doors burst open and Patricia, another one of Fowler’s brood, burst in with a human — the ghoul. His eyes were a little glazed from the Dominate, but he was quickly coming back to awareness.

“We found him a block down in the middle of some ritual by—”

With a grateful sigh, Monroe took Patricia’s pistol and put a bullet in the ghoul’s head. She gasped and let him collapse on the doorstep. He gently rotted, soft flesh sinking into the gaps between bones, as Monroe stepped over him.

“Excellent work, sister,” said Monroe cheerfully. “Round up the others. _Now_ we can go.”

#    
  


Fowler cursed in ugly French, a stream that Monroe’s basic understanding of the language struggled to keep up with. “That backstabbing ingrate!” he shouted. “How _dare_ he implicate me in this? After Baltimore, too, he has no right to disgrace me. Right now, I’m sure all of California is still laughing at me. 

“Here I am, Primogen of San Francisco, the jewel of Camarilla West Coast, a Cainite of well over two centuries, and am still some fresh morsel of the boat — to be spat upon, disrespected, humiliated. And not one of my clan can provide any evidence. All the mighty promises of the Clan of Kings, brought to ruin and ash. What of honour? _Dignitas_? 

“How did this happen? Outside the clan, who even knew about my association with Darius? And now, _murdered_ — assassinated, under my hospitality, in my seat power! The Brujah will have my head for this. It’s been three weeks and you still have no suspects? The whole city thinks I did it! The Brujah are snapping at the bit. No ideas of who could’ve broached my defenses and slain a powerful warrior-poet? Hmm, tell me!”

Monroe was reluctant to answer. Fowler had gone completely red, a normally dangerous sign among kindred. Vitae flooded the skin to ready for battle, or feeding. It was a true testament to Fowler’s rage that he ruddied so.

Three days past, Monroe had delivered Fowler the unfortunate news of his ally’s demise. At the time, Fowler had received the news calmly — always a bad sign. The longer he revved his anger up, the worse it became. 

At least he was yelling. When his sire _sounded_ his most violent, he was less likely to _be_ violent. And Monroe knew how to fend off Fowler’s physical rage. It wasn’t sadism, but retribution, a coward’s reclamation for power he felt he had lost. Fowler had calmly spent the last four hours, cool as a cucumber, pulling out Monroe’s fingernails, chopping the joints of his left hand to stumps, and Dominating him into pulling most of his own teeth out. At least he still had his tongue. All the rest — the yelling, the ranting, the ruddy face and quivering moustache — it was all just winding down. Probably. 

Fowler snarled and sniffed. “Pathetic. Is this how I surround myself these nights? With mute cowards and incompetents?”

“Evidently, sir,” said Monroe.

“Don’t play smart with me, boy,” snapped Fowler. “Patricia told me how you had nearly bungled the Giovanni, let one of their ghouls run.”

Monroe filed away that tidbit for later.

“Are we admitting that happened, now?” asked Monroe before he could shutter the words away. His tone was a dear mistake. “Sir,” he added curtly.

Fowler slid a silvered dish towards him, full of broken teeth and bloodied finger joints. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a childe. The only thing you have going for you is the investment of years that I have already sunk into you. I have half a mind to reclaim your blood tonight. Piece by piece, eh? Fang. Now.”

Monroe picked up the pliers before the claws of his sire’s Dominate could penetrate his mind. His fang slid out, thickening to a wolf’s curved canine. Suddenly he felt very small and exactly like the coward Fowler professed him to be. The pliers pinched the fang delicately and with a sudden strength, he pulled. Not hard enough. It wasn’t a human tooth, wrought deep in bone, but a vampire fang — supernatural and not entirely physiological. Monroe never bothered to hide his pain during Fowler’s ordeals and let himself shed a few blood tears at the agony.

Fowler kept up his raving and ranting, scarcely paying attention to Monroe.

Could be worse. After Monroe’s appraisal in Chicago, Fowler had built up his steam for _years_ and then spent a solid month enacting it.

This wouldn’t be forever, he told himself. While Monroe’s operations into steel and railways had been stolen by Fowler before they ever left Illinois, he had secretly been placing money into breweries and distilleries after the fall of Prohibition. His nest egg of cash and contacts was growing. One day, hopefully before the turn of the next century, he could leave. He had a bag ready. One day, he could leverage a threat against Fowler to let him go. 

His thoughts on the future, Monroe flooded his muscles with strong vitae and pulled on his fang harder. It snapped, wrenched out of a part that was as much soul as body, and he howled.

The fang clinked against the contents of the silver bowl.

Monroe dropped the pliers and let himself languish in the feeling of the pain, the humiliation. He fell forward from his knees onto all fours, blood trickling from his lips onto the floor as he trembled. He filed it all away, in a very thick file in the back of his mind. A hundred reasons, a thousand, a million for the day that came when he had the chance to leave, for when the Beast urged him to stay. Anything would be better than this.

“Was that so terrible? Childe, pain is the road we walk. Blood, power, and pain. The trinity of kindred existence. It is incomparable to the betrayal of cousins, of blood, of sworn oaths shattered before the pursuit of cold, hard cash. And yet, despite the Giovanni in Colma meeting their ends, the ghosts are still spying on me. They jingle chimes, hurl books, and make their dreadful presence known — their masters are mocking me! They will regret it. I will find out who they are and, together, Matthew, we will destroy them.”

The broken fang wept blood in his mouth.

Fowler threw the silver dish and its grisly contents showered over Monroe, from where he knelt on the polished hardwood floors. “Again! Give me the other fang!”

Expecting the unique pain, the second one came out much easier. Monroe sat back up on his knees and offered iit up in his hand, silently.

And then Fowler said the words he had been aching to hear. 

“Get out, get out, _get_ the fuck _out_ of my face, you whimpering—”

“Yes, my sire.” 

And Monroe, the always dutiful and obedient childe, hurried to obey.

He needed to check on the ghouls. In Fowler’s manor, he kept a small retinue of ghoul house staff — all of whom were as terrified as any of his childer. Monroe would heal. The fingers, the fangs and teeth, even, all they needed was blood. Ghouls were at a historical risk of having their heads ripped off. For all the insults and lack of recognition, Monroe knew he was too valuable to Fowler’s operation for any head-ripping.

Fowler’s head of household, an ancient heirloom ghoul known as Audrey Hawthorne, waited in the ghoul bedroom with the others. They all stared openly at Monroe’s dismal appearance, though it was scarce the first time they had seen him in such a state.

“He should be calming down,” he said. “You’ll all be safe — aside, from… I’m sorry about Verdana.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hawthorne. “Is there anything we can do for you before you leave?”

Her voice was professional, the offer expected of her, but the note of gratitude, the implication that she truly wanted to help instead of being terrified into it was all Monroe needed to hear.

“It’s alright, Miss Hawthorne, thank you. I’ll be alright.”

#    
  
  


The _HMS Entropy_ appeared to be the fever dream of a despondent Victorian, which was exactly what it was. The city’s favourite elysium was Oscar Wilde’s ship that cruised the San Francisco Bay twice a month. Black wood, black sails and rigging, twisted wrought iron sconces bearing real flames that put every kindred on edge. The musical entertainment always kept to the times and demands of the people, yet remained deeply eerie with a Gothic flare that was distinctly Toreador. Tonight, it was jazz.

Monroe had never seen the ship so full. It hadn’t yet cast off, yet the upper deck was full of mingling coteries and dancers. To any mortals who saw, it would look to be some dreadful historical enactment. The kindreds’ pale skin glowed a ghostly silver in the moonlight.

Despite the dancing, the mood was anything but jovial. Paranoid, secretive, but openly so. Normally, elysium had the standard air of suspicion that clung to groups of kindred, but there was a relaxation. It was a place of gossiping, power jockeying, recreation. Not fear. Even Flora, the pretty and stoic Toreador Monroe had been spending time with, looked paler than normal.

It must’ve been because of the news from LA. Word was, the prince had been killed by a rowdy bunch of Anarchs who had taken the city for themselves. And now riots had broken out in San Diego and Sacramento.

Barty Vaughn spotted Monroe as he boarded and made a bee-line for him. “Cousin, what a delight,” he said coolly. As per his custom, in common spaces, he dressed the epitome of Ventrue, in extreme uncomfortable formality, in a tails with white gloves.

Monroe shook hands and gave a small smile. “Mr Thomas, how are you tonight?”

Barty gestured for them to walk off the ship and back out into the docks. “It is only for the respect I hold for you, cousin, that I will give you this gift.”

Confused and wary, Monroe stopped them. “What gift?”

“A word of advice,” he said. His familiar face held none of the intimate familiarity to which Monroe had grown so accustomed. Instead, it was distant, cocky, excited. “ ‘Run’.”

Monroe gazed back at the ship, a terrible understanding beginning to fall over him. This wasn’t everyone’s favourite elysium. It was the court’s. The prince and primogen would all be aboard, all the harpies, movers and shakers, the Camarilla power bloc of San Francisco and the Bay.

Barty was a traitor. An Anarch. Ventrue Anarchs were so few that clan party line was that they didn’t exist. In a single night, Barty was prepared to betray his clan, the sect his clan founded, his city, and purpose. In a brief flash of understanding, Monroe knew why.

“Do you think it’ll work?” asked Monroe softly.

Barty smiled with fangs. “I have no idea, but this is my gambit. If I win, I win. If I lose, I won’t be a slave anymore.”

Monroe’s seven decades of training almost made him defend Barty’s sire, even as his own fangs hadn’t yet finished growing back in. His well-bred and chained Beast gave him an impulse to run, go tell Fowler, or even kill Barty for his danger to the clan and Camarilla.

Instead, he extended a hand again.

“Good luck,” he said. When Barty took his hand, surprised, Monroe pulled him closer and whispered in his ear. The very words sent a thrill through him. “If you kill Fowler, tell the son of a bitch I sent you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Barty.

Monroe turned back, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and returned to the street. He had driven, but it wasn’t a far walk. What was Barty thinking? It was a rhetorical question, Monroe knew. He had decided he wasn’t about to be a slave anymore, no matter what the cost. In theory, Monroe was a fan of the Camarilla. The Camarilla performed important functions, keeping them in order, keeping them hidden, dispensing justice. Much like Clan Ventrue. Every aspect of the clan, from the Board where they united themselves to serve the kindred, to the training agoge, to the dense litany of customs and conduct was designed to better them to serve their kind.

In theory.

Broadway. Osgood. Three flights of stairs up.

The small brass key still fit and Monroe entered the apartment. It had gone through a few renovations, as he had garnered more money. Gone was the dust and cobwebs and trash. Now, it was decorated in the highest of modern fashions, everything in its place. It had that designer unlived in look that came only from spaces that knew no inhabitance.

Monroe threw himself in his chair. It was the chair he had died in, his only concession to sentimentality. His mortal bloodstains still echoed in the wood.

Honour and obligation insisted he take Barty’s warning to his sire. If not to his sire, then to the rest of the clan. All the kindred of San Francisco and the Bay were at risk under an Anarch rule. LA had dissolved into riots and street war — in the middle of America! Ghouls on ghouls in daylight, kindred on kindred in the moonlight. The Masquerade was strained past the point of incredulity. 

He didn’t know how long he pondered betraying Barty, but moonlight streamed through the windows by the time he felt it.

It was a stake through the heart. Burning agony, worse than having his fangs torn out. He threw himself from the chair to all fours. The pain threatened to make him lose consciousness. He lost feeling in his limbs and his vision blurred.

He knew, absolutely, instinctively, that the blood bond between himself and his sire was gone.

Alastair Fowler had been killed.

Monroe picked himself off the floor, shivering at the vibrations that shook him still. The primogen was falling. The primogen had controlled the weakling prince with an iron fist. It was only moments until the prince died as well.

Barty was right. He had to leave.

He was the eldest childe of the Ventrue Primogen. If the Anarchs were about to topple the city, his name would be on their list.

Monroe grabbed his coat again and left his apartment, locking the door behind him. He strained his ears. Until he was out of the city, he would be in danger. Who knew how deep Barty’s conspiracy went? Monroe thought of Darius, Fowler’s secret Brujah contact, and his murder that the people had pinned on Fowler. The frantic purging of the Giovanni. How the Toreador and Tremere Primogens had both had deep lapses in judgment of late.

Footsteps. On the stairs, taking them fast. 

Monroe flattened himself against the wall by the stairwell. He could do it. He didn’t have a stake, or a sword, or fire, but he could still manage to incapacitate some young Anarch if he had the element of surprise.

The figure’s shadow played against the wall, one step forward—

Monroe lashed out, grabbing them by the neck and pinning them against the wall—

And abruptly letting go.

“Miss Hawthorne?” he said. “What—What’re you doing here?”

She panted, startled by the attack, and put a hand to her chest. “As Alastair Fowler’s property, it is by Ventrue and Camarilla custom that I am willed to the eldest childe.”

She must’ve felt the blood bond breaking. Lost and alone in a world that wouldn’t care if she remained a casualty of the revolution. Kindred didn’t think any of the ghouls they dragged into their worlds. Kind, devoted, two-century old Audrey Hawthorne. She had come to him for help.

Monroe passed a hand over his face. “Alright, of course. I’m sorry. I—Let’s get you out of the city.”

“Sir,” said Hawthorne, confused, “the primogen is compromised.”

Of course, under any other circumstance perhaps Monroe would throw his hat in the ring, stand from the shadow of his sire to unite the Ventrue in the face of disaster. What a lovely picture.

“It’s not compromised,” said Monroe, leading them down the stairs. “It’s a revolution and, rather unfortunately, if the Bay is taking notes from LA, the court and their childer will be staked for dawn.” And there was a good chance that, as an heirloom ghoul, Hawthorne would surely be seen as a relic of the same aristocratic traditions the Anarchs loathed. Not a victim of it.

A car — his sire’s town car, he realised, armored and light sealed — had been parked hastily and illegally outside the building. Hawthorne climbed behind the wheel and started the car before Monroe could get in.

“Where are we headed?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Out of California, I suppose, but if the court is destroyed I don’t think we can trust trains or airplanes.”

It was remarkable. As they fled San Francisco, the city seemed to be wholly intact. No fires, no screaming, no war in the streets. Mortals would be unaware of what had happened, and yet the sun would rise on an entirely new world.


	4. 1956: Refugee

#  **1956**

##  **Refugee**

  
  


Elysium was never difficult to find. By the time Hawthorne and he had landed in a new city, it was a small matter to find touristy places. Sites of art and history and politics. The Camarilla were nothing if not predictable. But, Monroe feared, he too had become predictable, or at least the last decade had progressed as such.

Perhaps Atlanta might be different.

Not for the first time, he longed to return to Chicago. His memories of Prince Lodin remained strict, strong, ruthless, but not cruel. Reasonable. Monroe could play that game. What he could not tolerate was pettiness. Before he left the car, he checked his pocketwatch again, his appraisal gift from the Chicago prince. Opposite the clockface was a small script in Latin.  _ Sanguinem Narrabo _ . Blood Will Out. He drew strength from the Ventrue maxim. He was a Ventrue, recognised by the Directorate. By virtue of his blood and standing, he was owed a place on the Board of any city he lived in. His clan demanded respect of even the lowest members. They banded together, a family, a brotherhood. While he could not count on the support of Toreador or Tremere, he could always count on his cousins.

Theoretically. In practise, there was nuance. 

Monroe stepped from his car and dismissed Hawthorne to her own devices for the night. The night air was overly hot and humid on his cold skin and made him shiver, but if the price to pay for a home was a little discomfort it would be well worth it.

Rhodes Hall was the expected elysium of any prince, let alone a Malkavian. The castle-manor house had been turned into a museum by daylight, but all that meant for kindred was a blissful step backward into familiar times. 

The Hall supposedly hosted a gala for private members twice a month. Tonight was the night. Cars pulled in and out of the drop off, leaving ladies in slinky dresses and ostentatious Victorian gowns, gentlemen in suits and also tails and white gloves, along with a diversity of fellows in street clothes who might’ve been college kids to the unwitting. Elysium, certainly.

Monroe approached the ghouled door attendant. Long gone were his nights of white gloves, but he remained presentable to even an elder Ventrue. The pocketwatch secured to a waistcoat under a suit jacket of modern tailor, while any Toreador would be able to distinguish his jeans as designer and of great value.

The ghoul lifted a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, sir, this is a members only event.”

That deep Southern accent might take some getting used to.

Monroe smiled and showed the ghoul his fangs. “I’m here to present myself to the prince.”

Chagrined, the ghoul mutely waved him on it.

The Hall was a step into history, much as he imagined. Aside from the prominent electric lights glinting from chandeliers, all amenities and fashions of the modern world were swept aside in favour of the medieval and the Vicotrian. Stained glass windows depicting American history, lush carpets, winding staircases, Romantic paintings set into wood panels along the walls and ceilings. Rich colours of red and forest green, shining mahogany, and weathered grey stone. Attractive white-tie ghouls carried glasses of blood on silvered trays. Anachronistic as it was, the setting was a comfort to ancillae, elders, and even older neonates like Monroe. Conversation was animated among the whole diversity of the city’s kindred population, a dread combination of new blood and old money.

Monroe had names and descriptions, no photographs to go on, as he navigated the crowds. He needed to find the prince. Five days already pushed his hospitality, especially since many these days had taken to calling him autarkis. 

Independent. Drifter. Outsider. Bereft of clan or sect.

Wasn’t his fault no one wanted him. And so, his reputation began the slow drawn out death of a Camarilla loyalist.

Las Vegas had been too fearful of Californians in the wake of the 1944 Anarch Revolts, seeing his survival as suspect. The Brujah prince of Minneapolis considered his city already saturated with Ventrue, despite letting him live there four years and begin to set down roots. Washington’s new Prince Marcus Vitel had been in the middle of a purge of those Ventrue disloyal to him and, on behalf of his newness, had merely banished him. It had been Baltimore that had broken his heart, though. Prince Garlotte was a fellow Ventrue, having held his city almost a century, and had let him live in the city but on the edge of society. Monroe had been barred from the Board — his honour and right as a Ventrue — and shunted at elysium by his clan, the court, and any who mattered. The night before he had left, Prince Garotte had been blunt with him. “If you content yourself to be a drifter, like a common Gangrel or Caitiff, you will be treated as such.”

And now Atlanta.

Suspicious eyes lingered on Monroe as he made his way through the crowds. Newcomers were opportunities for kindred, who could spend their mortal lives, their Embrace, and their centuries all in a single city. To the established elite, newcomers were wrenches in plans. To the lower clans, a new Ventrue could be a sign of great danger.

Monroe found the prince in the outdoor chapel, attended by who could only be his wife. Kindred marriages and lovers were exceptionally rare, especially such a pairing as them.

Prince J. Benison Hodge was a Malkavian, though his clan wasn’t evident. His barrel chest rumbled as he laughed at a comment his wife made. His receding hair and beard were trimmed but dated in style by at least a century, though his suit was modern. Most unusual for kindred, his eyes shone with a light as he smiled.

His wife, if Monroe’s information was accurate, was none other than Eleanor Delacroix, a Ventrue Embraced by the prior Justicar and a once-archon. Her blonde and green-eyed beauty was classical, but the set of her features and shrewd eyes radiated a strength that Monroe had come to expect from the few women in the clan. The power behind the crown.

The prince lowered his drink from his lips as Monroe approached. He scarce had time to bow before the prince swept him on. “Come on, son,” he said, “I haven’t seen you in my city before. No need to skulk in the shadows.” His voice was hearty and friendly. It made Monroe more anxious than if he had demanded respect or yelled.

“Not skulking, sir,” he said, making his way down into the chapel. “I was looking for you, sir, to request hospitality in your city.”

Ears pricked up from nearby kindred as he approached. Even if the entire city wasn’t immediately around him, word traveled fast through the undead and they might as well have been.

“Of course, of course, young man,” he said, gulping from his glass. “Who might you be?”

Monroe returned the smile and began the speech he had given in a half dozen cities before.

“I am Matthew Monroe, sir, of Clan Ventrue, and childe of Alastair Fowler, the last Primogen of San Francisco. Since the Revolts, I’ve found myself without a home. I come without malice or schemes, hoping only to find for myself a domain to call my own. My clan has found me asset and, as your newest subject, I would put myself at your disposal and service.”

Had the prince been any other, Monroe would’ve ended with a deep bow or, if Ventrue, possibly dropped to a knee and offered to kiss the ring and then the veins — service to the crown and blood. Depended on how dearly the prince clung to the trappings of his power.

“And how did you survive the Revolts, then?” asked the prince thoughtfully.

Monroe hesitated. “I was not one of the immediate targets of the Anarchs. Once I understood the primogen and prince had fallen and this revolution was backed by elders the like of MacNeil and Garcia, I fled. I understand my strengths and suicidal recklessness is not one of them, sir.”

“What are your strengths, cousin?” asked Eleanor. Though honeyed with the Southern accent, her voice wasn’t nearly as friendly as her husband’s.

“Discretion,” he said and he felt an understanding pass between them. Clan Ventrue did not outsource their dirty work for matters kept in house. “As clan whip, I often acted as the in-between for clanmates and members of other clans. From my record with both human businesses and kindred, I am skilled at turning underdogs into champions.”

Eleanor chuckled. “Perhaps I have a childe, then, I’d like you to see to.”

“It would be my honour, my lady,” said Monroe with a short bow. This had gone better than he had hoped.

“You seem an alright boy,” said the prince, nodding. “Only, I have one more question for you.” He smiled and inclined his head. “Do you believe in God, Mr Monroe?”

Monroe startled and did his best not to appear repellent. “Do I… Pardon?”

“Atlanta is full of God-fearing kindred, Mr Monroe,” continued the prince. “Simply because we have been forced to flee the sun and fire, does not mean we have been abandoned by the Almighty.”

This was why no one wanted Malkavian princes, he thought wearily.

“I believe that religion, as a system of mortal—”

The prince waved away his words like irate flies. “I didn’t ask you if you believe what the humans say about God. I asked if you believed in Him.”

Monroe felt the faintest trickle down his spine. Someone, somewhere, perhaps the prince, his wife, or one of the bystanders, had broken elysium and used as aspect of Auspex on him. Likely to detect lies.

“I am a Ventrue,” he said simply. “A curse of my blood is to focus on facts and what can be observed. My mind tells me I will never understand God.”

“And your heart, cousin?” asked Eleanor.

“Tells me I’m not meant to,” said Monroe quietly. “Faith is a gift I have yet to receive, though I have waited a century for it.”

The prince stroked his beard. “No one understands the works and acts of God,” he said. “You’re wise to know that.” He set his glass down on the stone table behind. “Tell you what, young man,” he said. “I’ll let you live in my city. You can see to a nice piece of land under my wife, tend to your cousins, and you come down to church twice a week for me.”

What a wretched bargain.

Despite the prince’s fair words, Monroe felt the atmosphere of the watchers change. A smirk, a snicker disguised as a cough. Atlanta wasn’t nearly as God-fearing as its prince thought. As he suspected, the power of the city lie with Eleanor, who successfully got for herself a new bitch.

And he had to go to church.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Monroe. “I accept your generous offer. I promise you won’t regret it.”

The prince extended a hand and Monroe shook it with a strained smile.

  
  
  


Not for the first time, Monroe contemplated burning it all. Surely, he had gathered enough paperwork for quite an impressive bonfire. He poured over city building plans, cross-referencing with notes Hawthorne had taken during the day. Kindred tended to make illegal alterations to buildings of import. Facts, figures, copies of business ledgers.

The domain under Eleanor, truth be told, was quite nice. A neighbourhood that included the Emroy University, where many college kids lived and worked. Once again, Hawthorne enrolled herself in the private university and found herself surrounded by children of the local wealthy and powerful, as well as those who might become self-made elite. It was rich grounds for future contacts and allies, as well as Embraces by high clans. 

Monroe threw his pen. It shattered against the far wall, spilling ink over the satiny wallpaper. 

Hawthorne glanced up from her study materials. As Monroe sat in the armchair of the drawing room, surrounded by his mess, she had taken over the couch and nearby floor with her own. She turned down the sound on the record player to a quiet mull. “Anything new, sir?”

“I wish, dearly, I do,” he said. His frustrations met the Beast and it itched to feed, despite drinking from his new herd twice this week already. As a compromise, he stood and began to pace, letting himself vent. “As far as the preacher prince, I could tolerate him alone. I can play to any Malkavian delusion if it means establishing my own domain. What he offered — what we have, is the best we’ve ever gotten. Perhaps the best we  _ will _ ever get.

“It’s his wife. Why,  _ why _ as soon as Ventrue have a taste of power we become absolute despots? She is not content with ruling through her soft-minded husband, but — no, poor, poor Violet must pay the price for being sired into our ‘family’, and every member of the Board must fear her every move. I’m more scared of failing her tonight than I ever was of Fowler — and  _ that _ is saying something.”

“Is it still about Marlene?” asked Hawthorne. So casual their relationship had become that she continued to take her notes from the textbook as he ranted.

“I’ve scarcely spoken to Marlene and — yet, here I am, planning a Toreador harpy’s downfall.” He turned over the paperwork. “Everything she loves and values, to turn into dust. Her art, the prince’s adoration and patronage of every piece, her reputation, her childer, her sister Toreador, her secret shameful ambitions in pornography.” Monroe tossed aside the relevant folder. “Which brings mind to a matter the Camarilla have not ruled upon. Question: if video exists of a kindred, doing normal human things, does that break the Masquerade?”

Hawthorne considered it. “I suppose not.”

The top paper on the pile was a photograph of Marlene. Beautiful, like most Toreador, in the middle of blowing a kiss to the camera. Black hair in tight ringlets, large limpid eyes, wide attractive features, and smooth dark skin turned ashen by the blood. Embraced a few decades ago, young enough to still find joy in their world.

“I’m supposed to ruin her life,” said Monroe bitterly, “because  _ I’m told to _ . How does that help the kindred we’re meant to rule? Alternatively, I could take it to the prince who would loathe his wife for trying to have his favourite artist destroyed — or he would blame me for slandering his beloved wife. I might scheme with Marlene, conspire with a Toreador against my own blood, but what would that accomplish? 

“If I do it, I get to live on the bottom rung, everyone’s fall-man, and under Eleanor’s thumb for as long as I’m in Atlanta. Same as ever. Every city I will ever live in, I have no contacts, no allies, no way to keep myself from being the pawn of power. They know what I want and will taunt me with it.”

He gathered the papers, thinking on what he had said. 

“Unless,” he said slowly, “I could stop wanting it.”

“Are you alright, sir?” asked Hawthorne. She closed her book.

Eleanor was able to manipulate him because she knew how desperately he wanted to be a part of Ventrue business. But what if he didn’t want power? What if he stepped aside? What if he had nothing they could threaten? Already, he had no operations in the city, nothing to lose but his ghoul. His finances were too diversified across America for any single kindred to damage him severely.

What if he accepted what people called him? What if he contented himself to live on the edge of society? Collaborate with Brujah and Gangrel and even Caitiff, ingratiate himself into humanity. Abandon the clan. As far as Camarilla were concerned, all he needed to do was recognise the prince’s authority.

Autarkis.

The word sent a terrible shiver down his spine.

It was common party line to say there was no such thing as a Ventrue Anarch. Anyone with half a mind could point out the few and scattered Ventrue among Anarch factions and cities. California, of course, was not bereft of Ventrue. The truth was the only True Ventrue were Camarilla and entrenched in the sect they built and maintained.

Instead of fighting his way up the four-dimensional ladder of Ventrue power, he could simply be a Ventrue in spirit, beholden not to the despots clinging to power but himself, do what he knew to be right and true by those his clan ruled. Not by destroying the Camarilla like the Anarchs, but amending it, helping those within it. 

Monroe had cowered before his clan in obedience for nearly a century. He thought of the night of his appraisal. The best night of his life, when he had been convinced Clan Ventrue was everything it proclaimed itself to be. Kindred living by a code of honour more like medieval chivalry than modern politeness. A clan of rulers and merit who trained their own over decades, finessing them to exemplify the  _ noblesse oblige _ that led them to founding the Camarilla. The blood egged them to chase power but the clan culture was dedicated to  _ using _ that power for the good of all. 

Ventrue were not turned out Brujah, blooded and shown the door. Decades of work went into making a Ventrue. Every single Ventrue earned their position. First by their mortal lives, then the proving of the agoge, the appraisal, the nightly Board — everything, everything had a purpose. It was a clan of merit, of honour, of serving their subjects with distinction. The work, the suffering, the yoke of power — there was a reason for it all.

And it was  _ not _ pettiness. It was not cruelty or making a sport of their position.

It wasn’t too late. He could still be that Ventrue he thought populated the clan. But he would be alone. He would always have the blood, but he would be disowned.

Monroe gathered the papers on Marlene together in a pile. It was so thick that corners still stuck out at odd angles from the dense stack.

The revelation seemed to lift a terrible weight from his shoulders.

“Sir, are you okay?” asked Hawthorne cautiously.

Monroe smiled. “You know, I think I am.” He leaned back and sighed, frowning. “What’s that music you’re listening to, by the way?”

She turned it up. There was something cheery about the melody, though he hadn’t heard anything like it before. Then again, he listened to very little music.

“ _ A Hard Day’s Night _ ,” she said. “It’s the Beatles’ new album.”

The record skipped onto the next song. There was a bite and a speed to the music and he found himself enjoying it. “It’s great,” he said. “How did you find them?”

Hawthorne repressed a snicker, though not quick enough. “Sorry, sir,” she said, flushing. “Among mortals, the Beatles are exceptionally popular and famous musicians.”

“Are they?” he asked, embarrassed at how out of touch he had become. Truly, kindred and humans lived on two entirely separate planes of existence. Even the Toreador hadn’t been talking of them. Human culture filtered down to kindred with a backlog of several decades.

“They’re coming to Atlanta,” said Hawthorne casually. “Tickets are all sold out.”

Monroe smiled to himself. It was a testament to her almost two centuries among kindred, not to mention her intimate knowledge of him, that she would offer such a leading comment. 

He wasn’t a prince; he didn’t have subjects. He wasn’t the Board’s praetor; he didn’t rule the city’s Ventrue. He wasn’t part of a coterie; he had no allies to follow him.

Yet he did have a ghoul. A single soul he was wholly responsible for. It was his blood that kept her alive and chained. Making her comfortable and happy was the barest of his obligations.

Monroe brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “I’m sure I’ll be able to procure admission.”

“For you, too, or only me?” she asked evenly. Though he knew, even as she mingled with mortals, free to form friendships and even romance, as much as she was all he had, he was all she had.

“I’ll come, Miss Hawthorne, don’t worry,” he said. “Once Eleanor realises I won’t destroy Marlene for her, I’m afraid our time in Atlanta will come to a swift end. This concert might be the last thing we have a chance to do.”


	5. 1972: Autarkis

#  **1972**

##  **Autarkis**

  
  


It was a common misconception that a Camarilla city was divided in its entirety. Kindred were, by nature, bloodthirsty and in search of excitement to strive off ennui. Choice domains were centered around downtown nightlife, the wealthy, universities and research institutes, sites of occult interest, and even the subways and barrens or industrial wastelands.

No vampire ever wanted to live in the suburbs by the good schools.

And that was exactly where Monroe set himself up. Suburbs were much the same in every city: emerald lawns sprawled before houses accented by paneling or brick, but ultimately identical. Modest, two- or three-bedroom houses, with a garage and a basement, along with his own modifications for security and safety.

He rarely braved the sites of cultural and political force that might be Boston’s elysia, but Hawthorne remained enrolled in a local prestigious university. This time it was Harvard. The presence of a strange ghoul, prepared to speak of her reclusive regent no less, made many kindred nervous. Rather against his will, Monroe had garnered a little infamy. Autarkis were either so unnoteworthy that they slipped below radar or so powerful they resisted attempts at taming by the sects. As a Ventrue, he was not the former. As an ancilla, he was hardly the latter. He might not be stronger, but he might be cleverer.

Monroe flipped through Hawthorne’s collection of records before putting one on. Not too loud, the neighbourhood was sleeping. It was some hot new record she had found.  _ Ziggy Stardust _ . The development of music had become his chief interest. He had even enrolled in night classes alongside Hawthorne exploring musical theory.

As the guitar and voice whined in some zany harmony, Monroe wondered what mortals might create next. It was humans, after all, and not Toreador who were the world’s creators.

He checked the monitors again. The system was crude and far less efficient than similar Tremere wards for a domain, but he had no skill with blood magic and a great need to secure his haven. Four CCTV cameras transmitted to the monitor: backdoor, front door, backyard, and front street.

Six months and there had been nothing. 

Tonight, there was something. Monroe narrowed his eyes. A figure approached from the far street. The posture was bent, as though partially hunched over. Hooded.

This was a nice neighbourhood. Kids played on the street. 

Monroe took stock of his gun again and slid it in his waistband, along with a stake.

The figure stopped at the end of his drive, looking up at the house.

Monroe was hardly dressed for combat — or elysium, for that matter. In sweatpants and a t-shirt, he was more like to be mistaken for a Brujah. He smoothed his uncombed hair and opened the front door. The figure started and raised both hands.

“Come on in,” said Monroe. “Everyone knows where to find me.”

The figure scurried up the drive and dropped his hood. A man, eyes wide and shivering, ragged blonde hair, and features that might’ve been handsome had he bathed. His hoodie had been through hell, ripped and torn, stained liberally with mud and possibly blood. His jeans fared little better.

“You’re… you’re the—” The man clearly searched for a word that wasn’t insulting.

“Probably,” said Monroe with a shrug. His hand still held the stake behind him. “What’s it to you?”

“I…” The man swallowed. Hard. “I plead for your assistance, cousin.”

Monroe dropped the stake and stared. He stepped aside and the man — the Ventrue, stepped inside. His heart fell and he slammed the door.

“Thank you,” choked the man. He collapsed in the couch, head in his hands. His shoulders shook and he sobbed. Bloody tears seeped through his fingers.

Bewildered, Monroe kept an eye on the monitor and put an arm around his clanmate. “What’s after you?” he asked.

“My… He tried to  _ kill _ me. To re-reclaim—”

“Reclaim the blood,” finished Monroe with a sense of growing dread.

His sudden guest was a Ventrue fledgling, having escaped his sire mid-agoge when he decided he wasn’t worth it any longer.

Monroe sat himself next to the guest and let him sob into his shoulder. The blood tears filled the room with the intoxicating scent of kindred vitae, but Monroe was too lost in his own plans to be tempted.

Eventually, the guest had cried himself out and Monroe managed to draw the story out. His name was Zachary Grimes and he had been Embraced six months ago. Prior, he had been a successful criminal defense lawyer. Harvard law, obviously. Previous military service, almost expected. He had been approached by a former client, asked to be put on retainer. Under this strange patron’s new power, he admitted to have dabbled in white collar crime, and had even begun to create fake IDs. He was good at it, he admitted shamefully.

But he was a bad student, his sire a worse teacher, and he described his agoge in very familiar terms. Rote memorization of a history known only orally, a million tiny rules of etiquette and conduct, adopting a new way of thinking, of being. Along with adjusting to unlife, mastering Disciplines, feeding and hunting. Mastering matters of manipulation, the art of oratory, business and finances. All punished with withering insults, crushing use of Presence, and physical pain. And the complex relationship of sire and childer: fear, loathing, love, a desperation to please.

Zachary had been thrown out.

“Why did you invoke the Ethic of Succor, then?” asked Monroe.

Zachary wiped the tears, smearing blood across his face. “I didn’t have anywhere to go. No—No Ventrue would take me and the others—”

“Oh, I’m well aware how other clans like to complain about us,” said Monroe with a sigh. “You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you want, but I do have rules.”

Zachary sat up fully and swallowed whatever pride he still had. “Of course.”

“First, and most importantly, the door is always open,” he said seriously. “You aren’t a prisoner and are always free to leave and I wish you well. Second, I need your trust. Trust and honour are the only ways to conduct relations without fear. Third, do not make me regret trusting you. So long as you are here, I will have your back, but you must have mine.”

Zachary nodded eagerly enough. “Of course, sir—”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’.”

Monroe showed the fearful neonate where he could sleep and around to the rest of the house, which kindred had little use for. All the while, he cursed his stupid conscience. Harbouring a Ventrue was far more attention than he wanted to draw to himself.

It took the sire four days to find out where Zachary had fled. Hawthorne had stayed home from classes, keeping watch during the day in case the sire sent a hit squad or mortal intermediaries. Monroe found himself checking the monitor and windows several times an hour, twitchy at small noises. This was the most he had involved himself in local affairs in years.

“Sir—”

“I see it,” said Monroe grimly. The monitor displayed a sleek black car entering the drive. A man in a tailored suit exited and approached the door.

“Oh God, is he here?” whimpered Zachary.

“Basement, now,” ordered Monroe, and the neonate scarpered out of sight. It wasn’t to hide him that Monroe wanted him away. The boy wouldn’t like the conversation.

Monroe had darned a bespoke suit, pulled out of a dry cleaning bag where it had waited for years. The familiar ritual of formality put him in a mind he wasn’t terribly fond of — calculating, scheming, ruthless, fearful. And yet, as he opened the door to greet the sire, he was the picture of the modern Ventrue.

It was like looking into a mirror. The sire’s hair had been heavily slicked back, comb streaks running through the brown, and his suit was grey where Monroe’s was blue but the resemblance struck him. It was no wonder other clans sneered that Ventrue all looked alike.

“I believe you have something of mine, Monroe,” said the sire.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, while I don’t know yours.”

“Nathan Shaw, Tenth of the Line of Alexander the Architect.”

“Matthew Monroe, Ninth of the Line of Artemis Orthia.” Monroe extended a hand, which Shaw didn’t recognise.

Shaw’s dark brows raised a centimeter. “I was under the impression you considered yourself little more than a Caitiff.”

Monroe retracted his hand and shifted to block Shaw’s entrance if he pushed through. Unlikely, given how undignified it might be, but Monroe had few rights to stand on.

“Regardless where I live or how I live,” he said, “I still bear the blood of Clan Ventrue and am bound by its responsibilities and customs.”

“You abandoned your responsibilities with your principles,” said Shaw. His nostrils flared.

Monroe remembered the impulse he himself had felt when Barty Vaughn had dared to speak and act against the clan’s tradition. 

“We shall agree to disagree,” said Monroe cordially. “But we have the sticky matter of your childe, who came to a fellow Ventrue and pled by the Ethic of Succor for sanctuary.”

Shaw barked a laugh. “Did he? What a presumptuous weasel.”

“I believe there is a way for all of us to be happy,” said Monroe with a bright smile. “We all have things we want—”

“As sire, I have the right to reclaim the blood of my progeny,” said Shaw sternly.

Monroe raised a finger to stop the tirade before it began. “But what if the childe was no longer a mistake? That’s why you choose to exercise your rights, no doubt.”

“The whelp can’t remember the difference between Camilla and  _ the _ Camarilla,” said Shaw with a snort of derision. “He’s a hopeless case.”

“What if I managed to administer the academics of the agoge, and return to you a Ventrue capable of completing his Test?” asked Monroe.

“You must be soft in the head—”

“A lot of preparation goes into Embracing a new childe,” interrupted Monroe. Shaw’s eyes flashed. Interrupting was a gambit, establishing dominance as the elder when he wasn’t entirely certain who between them had more years. “He spent some years as your ghouled servant. I’m sure you discussed Mr Grimes’s prospects with the Board, trusted allies, perhaps your own sire. They must’ve all approved, urged you to move forth with the Embrace and agoge. Do you truly wish to return to them and admit you made such a grave mistake?”

Shaw considered matters. He must’ve been younger. Monroe’s voice had cut him and he displayed the smallest inclination of respect. He didn’t take his eyes from Monroe’s as he thought.

“Six months,” he said at last. “If Grimes is just as incompetent as he was—”

“Then, I shall deliver him to you myself,” said Monroe graciously. He dropped his smile. “Now, if you will, I have not extended hospitality to you, Mr Shaw, and firmly request you leave my domain.”

  
  


Monroe moved his rook. “Name the thirteen great clans.”

Zachary gave the chessboard an unfortunate look. He didn’t know enough about the game to know he had already lost. But he was getting better. He spoke slowly, almost stiffly. “The seven pillars of the Camilla are—”

“Cam _ ar _ illa,” corrected Monroe. “It’s an old Italian word, so  _ Camarilla _ is also acceptable.” The double-L trilled.

Zachary winced and inched forward a pawn. “The seven pillars of the  _ Camarilla  _ are Ventrue, Malkavian, Nosferatu, Toreador, Brujah…” As he trailed off, he bit his lip so hard that the pale flesh drained of whatever colour remained.

“Divide it further,” he advised. “High clans and low clans. The high clans are, generally speaking, the movers and shakers, rulers, the court: Ventrue, Tremere, Toreador. The low clans, generally, make up the populace: Brujah and Gangrel, Nosferatu and Malkavian.”

Zachary repeated the seven clans accurately. He still clearly didn’t trust Monroe to take up his education where it had been left off. His eyes flickered wildly and whenever he made a mistake, he cringed.

“The Sabbat is formed of clans Lasombra and… Tzimisce?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you, sir.”

“Good, because you are correct. Now, the independents.”

“Clans that swear no allegiance to the  _ Camarilla _ or Sabbat are the Giovanni, Setites, Assamites, and Ravnos.”

“Excellent,” said Monroe crisply. “Let’s return to Antonius the Architect. Tell me about him.”

Zachary fidgeted with a captured knight. Behaviour-wise, he had a long way to go. Six months wasn’t long to teach a human an entirely new way of presenting.

“He ruled Constantinople.”

Monroe waited for an elaboration, but it was clear it wasn’t going to come. “Very quickly, you will learn the art of bullshit,” he said. “Ventrue love hearing ourselves talk, and this is your Methuselah, your ancestor, the way you mark your line in the clan. Tell me why I should respect the line of Antonius, why you’re proud to name him your ancestor.”

Zachary sat up straighter and took a deep breath. “Antonius ruled as the Architect of the Triumvirate of the Dream of Constantinople. Michael the Toreador and Dracon… the… Tzimisce? Dracon the Tzimisce. Together, they built a new glorious empire of enlightenment and harmony among all clans and between humans.” 

“Much better,” said Monroe. He slid his bishop into place to be taken by Zachary’s knight. “Don’t breathe. It’s unnecessary.”

Zachary’s chest stopped its methodic rise and fall. He looked alarmed to begin, but sunk into the habitual stillness. A flash of triumph spread across his face as he took Monroe’s bishop.

They had spent hours each night, for nearly two weeks, as Monroe told the oratory of Clan Ventrue and Cainite history and Zachary did his best to recite it back. He had improved, if only marginally. Monroe had kept his criticisms light and hadn’t punished the childe at all, but he remained flighty.

Zachary won, to his blatant disbelief, but he had moments to celebrate the victory before the board was set again and the questions restarted.

“Are all the clans like this?” asked Zachary at one point.

“Like what?”

Zachary gestured to the board. “Like  _ this _ , the training, the code?”

Monroe chuckled. “Not at all. The Tremere have their own study period, I believe, but it’s almost entirely occult in nature.” Zachary didn’t ask his next question, but Monroe answered it anyways. “The Ventrue have always shouldered the responsibility of leadership in the clan and greater kindred society. That responsibility has lead to a strict adherence to clan unity. That’s what it’s all for: history, to respect our prior accomplishments and inspire new ones, the skills to problem-solve, to rule, even the behaviour and dress have the same effects as a widespread uniform, the code of honour and customs like the Ethic ensure we have each other’s backs.”

“Then, why did my sire want to kill me?” asked Zachary. His voice trembled and he knocked over a few pawns. “And why’re you handing me back to him?”

Monroe righted the pawns. “He thought you were unworthy of the legacy. I disagreed. I think any of us can rise to the occasion. When you return to him, you’ll be ready to assert yourself. Doubtless, this is a cruel world, but I won’t let you enter it without a weapon.”

“What weapon?” asked Zachary warily. A pink film of bloody tears glistened in his eyes, but there was hope. And hope was all Monroe needed.

“The only weapons a Ventrue needs: his mind and his tongue. Now, let’s return to the formation of the Camarilla…”

  
  


Six months later, to the day, the hour, and practically the minute, an anonymous black car slid its way into the drive and a figure stepped out. Monroe turned on the record player and tuned down the volume to a polite level. Bob Marley’s cheery tunes echoed out into the still and silent backyard.

Monroe knew his plan and place in it. Ventrue thrived on meticulously crafted plans, but he found himself deeply proud of his would-be childe. Though it had been touch and go, he had full confidence in Zachary’s abilities. Equally, he could have said he had full confidence in his own abilities to instill the same Machiavellian mindset and Ventrue propaganda he too had received. At once, Monroe killed the flicker of conscience. Regardless. Zachary had all the abilities he needed to stay alive in the world of Ventrue, including the free will to leave it. The rest was up to him.

When Shaw approached the door, Hawthorne opened it and led him through the house and into the backyard. The house was common, decorated in the modern family style of any of its neighbours, and opened into a backyard similarly disused but dressed in the trimmings of upper-middle class families. A garden of fragrant flowers and a large expanse of concrete, complete with BBQ and patio furniture. In the center, a strangely shaped mass had been covered by a sheet. Monroe knew he and Zachary looked terribly out of place on plastic patio furniture. Both leapt to their feet when Shaw appeared.

Monroe offered his hand again to shake, which Shaw promptly ignored.

“How has your endeavor gone, Monroe?” asked Shaw. A muscle twitched in his lip, as though insulted by merely being in his presence.

Monroe gestured to Zachary. “I am pleased to give Mr Grimes my personal stamp of approval, though I know such a thing would mean little to you.”

Shaw’s eyes narrowed subtly as he inspected his childe. Monroe knew what he saw. An unblinking, unmoving, emotionless, prim and proper Ventrue neonate. In a suit. It might have been from a nice department store and not bespoke Italian, but it fit him well.

Once Shaw’s full attention came to Zachary, he dropped to a knee with some degree of grace and extended a hand. Curious, Shaw let him kiss the ring (though he wore none on his finger) and his veins.

“Who are you?” demanded Shaw.

“Sir, my name is Zachary Grimes, of Clan Ventrue, Tenth of the Line of Antonius the Architect.” The voice was clean, with a touch of chilled pride.

Although unoffered, Shaw took seat and said, “Tell me of your lineage and the history of Clan Ventrue.”

Chin raised, Zachary began his recitation. It was lengthy. Incredibly so, befitting only the Ventrue who were so proud of ancestry. Even as his speech ticked well past thirty minutes, Shaw watched him closely. But Zachary did not stumble. He remembered his dates and pronunciations. His words were embellished with enough fruity adjectives to stock a thesaurus. 

Monroe resisted the urge to preen for his ugly duckling, but only just.

When Zachary had fallen silent with one more “my sire”, only  _ Three Little Birds _ hovered between them. Shaw showed no signs of being impressed. Exemplary presentation wasn’t impressing. It was simply expected.

“Very well,” said Shaw. “I suppose you might be worthy of retaining, and perhaps even setting you a final test to prove your worth.”

“It would an honour, my sire.”

“Quite. Now.” Shaw turned a piercing gaze on Monroe. “It appears you have accomplished what you have promised.”

“I keep my word,” said Monroe. He smiled. “The only matter left is the hit squad.”

Shaw’s face lost whatever cordial respect there might have been. “What are you talking about?”

Monroe took the cloth off the strange shape on the concrete. It was a tangle of three kindred. They were dressed all in black, as though for surveillance or a night mission., but their t-shirts were ripped and full of gunshots. The whites of their eyes swiveled to take in their surroundings. Monroe had dragged them from the basement, where had had kept them staked and immobile these last five months as he waited.

They also exhibited a strong scent of high proof alcohol.

Shaw barely spared the ruffians a glance. He scoffed. “You think I would send this… trash to exercise my rights as a sire when you and I had already made a business agreement?”

_ No. I think you sent them to test my own strength. All three were well trained and skilled. You, of course, had no way of knowing I had a powerful ghoul to assist. _

“Of course not,” said Monroe with a genteel smile. “I thought you merely would like to know that such trash has been removed from Boston’s peaceful streets.”

Shaw gave him a slow smile in turn as he shook his head. “If you don’t recognise Camarilla rule, autarkis, you won’t be protected by her laws. What would the prince say if you violated the Sixth Tradition?”

Monroe considered his prisoners. “I think her and her subjects would know that while I am available if they wish to conduct civil business, I am not to be taken lightly.”

He took a lighter out of his pocket and before Shaw could protest, clicked it on and tossed it onto the tangle of alcohol-soaked limbs.

Kindred were essentially kindling. The light took at once, flaring into a brief fireball before hungrily consuming the dead flesh. The fires belched thick dark smoke, stinking of rancid burning meat.

Shaw, to Monroe’s delight, gripped his chair with white knuckles and stared at the fire, transfixed with terror. Even Zachary, who had known what was coming, took several more steps back towards the house.

Monroe shoveled down his own Beast. Such a display was worthless if he fled.  _ Run. Run. Run. This is  _ fire _. Bullets, knives, fangs — nothing’ll kill you faster. Get out of here, you fucking lunatic! _

The flames were under control and so would be the Beast. 

As the kindred were silently devoured by the flames, the fire dimmed. The clothing continued to smolder, but it was clear that the kindred within had succumbed to the Final Death. Piles of bones charred deep in the waving flames.

“I believe you have made your point perfectly clear,” said Shaw. He had mastered himself and his voice displayed none of the fear. “Mr Grimes, it’s time to go.”

“Yes, my sire.”

Zachary gave Monroe a smile full of human glee and gratitude, which Monroe returned only nominally. The neonate had ways of getting in contact with Monroe, should he have to leave town suddenly, but, more importantly, he knew that his current existence and future position in the clan were in Monroe’s debt.

Not official debt. Not kindred boons. Shaw had been right. So long as Monroe lived outside true Camarilla society, he was not beholden to their customs. But Zachary knew he owed him — dearly — and he liked him, which only deepened his sense of debt.

Even if Monroe found the sheriff and his scourge banging down his door, Boston hadn’t been a total loss.

  
  


In the center of Nashville’s Centennial Park stood a perfect replica of the Greek Parthenon. Monroe had never been to Greece, but the guidebook touted it as accurate to the inch. Certainly looked right. Strict hard lines, towering columns, and a triangular summit. Though there was no official cover, Nashville’s prince held elysium once a month. 

Hawthorne smoothly eased the car into the abandoned parking lot. Kindred making their arrivals crossed the neatly mown grass of the park, a familiar diversity of faces and styles. Monroe watched them for some time through the inky black windows.

“Miss Hawthorne.”

She killed the engine and took out the notepad she always carried on her person. Despite their decades together, Monroe had never seen her take a note. “Sir.”

“When you leave, I want you to spend the night with that Caitiff we found,” he said.

“Lauren Smithson.”

“Yes, her. She’s young. Approach her as a friend, an equal, and find out as much about her fellow cast-offs — Caitiffs, Toreador past their prime, abandoned Brujah and Gangrel, a disappointing and disgruntled Ventrue if you can find one. We must be smarter than we were in Boston.” Monroe considered things. “Sorry.  _ I  _ must be smarter than  _ I _ was in Boston.”

She nodded, accepting the instructions. “How young are you willing to take them, sir?”

“So long as they have the blood, I don’t care if they were Embraced yesterday.” He opened his door and smiled grimly. “In fact, that would likely make things easier.”

Monroe marched across elegantly manicured grass as Hawthorne drove away to attend to her night’s work. He buttoned his suit jacket and straightened the already straight cuffs. As a newcomer, he gathered a few discreet stares as he approached the entrance. 

It was not a ghoul but a kindred security — likely a lickspittle of the sheriff or keeper — who raised a hand at his approach.

“Whoa, hold on there, mister.” He reached for his radio. “Can I give a name for the prince’s consideration?”

“Name’s Monroe,” he said. “Ventrue. Autarkis. Here to pay my respects to the reigning prince.” 

The security took his radio and repeated the information. The crackle of static made the kindred flinch and he raised a finger to give him a minute. 

The easy flow of traffic had halted behind him and a line began to form. And kindred did as kindred do. They gossiped and hardly discreetly. He heard his name a dozen times in hushed whispers, but he had more pressing matters than the grudging infamy he had gained. The prince was well within her rights to throw him back to the road, a prospect already likely.

The security slid his radio back in his pocket. “The prince is waiting in the west wing.”

Monroe nodded his thanks and proceeded into the Parthenon’s west doors. The wide marble floors and towering ceiling made him feel very small, but nothing could’ve accomplished that better than the forty foot stone statue of Athena, painted in gold and armed for war. Such a statement from a Brujah prince, whose clan had patronised Athens in wars against the Ventrue, might’ve said something very different.

For a Toreador who was, word said, ruled by her Tremere advisors, she likely just thought it was pretty.

It looked to be as much like an old knightly court as any kindred was likely to get. Newcomers to the elysium waited almost in line to address the prince. Prince Carla Banes sat on a gold throne at Athena’s feet, while her advisors and security stood between her and the peasantry. How droll.

None could doubt the effect. The prince wore a gold crown and a delicate white dress. The obvious power only magnified her serene beauty.

As Monroe approached, the sea of kindred parted. The whispers had beat him. The quiet din of conversation silenced from her retinue and everyone waited tersely for his first move.

He slowly approached the throne and knelt. A half-forgotten list of Ventrue training echoed in the back of his memory.  _ Right knee down, left up. Head bowed. Left arm across raised knee, right arm extended in offer _ .

Moments passed before the prince deigned to stand. A cool hand slipped into his, a heavy and ugly signet ring depicting whatever sigil a prince had deigned as theirs. Most Toreador were dreadfully unoriginal: a crowned rose. Monroe kissed the ring, then turned the hand over to kiss the juncture of veins on the wrist. To rule in blood is to rule in truth.

Respects paid, he stood and waited.

“Mr Monroe,” said the prince at last in a wintery voice plagued by a throaty Southern accent, “I must say your reputation does you little honours, but I suppose I may permit you to introduce yourself.”

Monroe began anew the speech he had spent the last three months preparing.

“My name is Matthew Monroe, of Clan Ventrue. I respect your rule and the Traditions of Camarilla law. So long as I request leave to remain in your city, I will take part in no elysia or coterie, feed nowhere but the common Rack, and operate no business in your domain. I request no formal recognition of domain, but only that I may reside outside the areas of established interest.”

The prince’s fingers stroked the arms of her throne. “My maitre D said you claimed to be an autarkis. Have you the faintest idea what that word means?”

“In the original Greek—”

“It means ‘outlaw’,” she said. Her voice cracked like a whip off the marble walls. A pin could’ve dropped. “Outside the law, for those who are not bound by the law are not protected by it. Free to break the Masquerade, sire indiscriminately, beholden to no code of laws nor morals. A beast. And beasts are free to be hunted.”

“If your intentions are to have me killed, I appreciate your forwardness, Your Highness,” said Monroe cordially. “In which case, I will leave your city this night and you’ll need not be bothered by me again.”

“My, you’re touchy,” chuckled the prince. “If some middling lost Ventrue boy wants to play Caitiff on the outskirts of my city, I’ll let you do as you wish. But I am warning you to not bandy about words like ‘autarkis’, unless you are prepared to defend them.”

Monroe nodded and bowed, swallowing his answer to such a question. “I thank you, ma’am, for letting me remain. And I assure you, Your Highness, I am more than prepared to defend my words.”


	6. 1992: Forum

#  **1992**

##  **Forum**

  
  


It was a long drive to New Jersey. Monroe took the wheel at night, Hawthorne during the day, each sleeping while the other drove. Never did he think he would loathe the interior of his luxury SUV, but the night had come. Aside from brief and somewhat undignified hunting trips, he had been locked in the leather upholstered, light sealed, armored car. His eyes flicked towards the car phone below the gear shift, both dreading and hoping it would ring again.

Sandra Redding had been his first to call him. Once, a Ventrue Embraced and then ignored by a shameful sire with the passion and foresight of a Toreador, he had administered her agoge fully and she maintained full membership in the clan. She had called from Dallas four days ago.

Then, had come Zachary Grimes, of Boston.

Then, Melanie Folchart, of Nashville.

One by one, every Caitiff and directionless fledgling he had taken under his wing began to call him. Some of them had nothing more to say than _ something  _ “Ventrue” was happening in New York, others had heard Jersey. 

Sandra Redding had been the first to know the details. The Dallas Primogen was sending her and a few others as his representative. The Ventrue were calling a Forum. The word had gone out, across the continent, across the world. Any with the blood on the planet could attend. Should attend.

Ten o’clock. 13 March, 1994. The Butler Amphitheatre in Princeton University, New Jersey.

Not for the first time, Monroe was tempted to turn off the interstate and into the nearest major city. He wasn’t likely to receive a warm welcome. He might even be thrown out. Really, he was only a Ventrue in the eyes of every other clan. 

But it wasn’t his right to attend. It was his responsibility.

He exited the 295 Interstate and slid slowly down into the town of Princeton. Most of the east coast was a dangerous place. Sabbat strongholds lined the coast. From their recent acquisition of Boston in the north, to Miami in the south, and nearly everything in between. As far east as Detroit, Pittsburg, and Charlotte, the Camarilla had learned to avoid.

And yet Princeton looked like another other college town. The brownstones so popular in the east, touches of old Europe downtown, and the mass of businesses catering to the young students. Eateries, coffee shops, mid-ranged fashion boutiques, and neighbourhood bars.

There was also a suspicious amount of traffic. Almost Masquerade-breaching levels of expensive sports cars, SUVs, and town cars funneled towards the university. The university itself appeared like a great stone manor house on the property of some English lord.

The car phone rung again as he pulled into the parking lot. He picked it up before it finished its first trill.

“Hey, Monroe,” said a familiar voice. Male, anxious, but trying to sound tough.

“Lloyd Morgan,” he said quietly, trying to not wake Hawthorne in the backseat. “What a surprise.”

“I’m in DC now. Thought you should know — the prince, one your guys, he’s left. Skipped town.”

Prince Marcus Vitel was at the Forum, that was interesting. Most princes and primogen, he expected, would send representatives. Many would heed the call personally, he supposed.

“How was he, when he left?” 

Something ruffled against the receiver on the other end. Remarkable. Even through a telephone, he could  _ hear _ the Brujah’s leather jacket. “I don’t know — but those guys who gave you shit, the sheriff, his minions, they all went with him. Thought you should know. It’d… you know, be groovy to have you back around.”

“I’m in the neighbourhood,” admitted Monroe. Princeton wasn’t nearly large enough to hold such a collection of kindred. Very shortly, DC, as the nearest Camarilla city, would be overrun with blue bloods. “Tell you what. I’ll be around in a few days, I’m not sure for how long, but, if you’re willing to put me up, maybe I’ll stay longer.”

“Oh, dude, of course,” spluttered Lloyd. “I mean, there’s definitely room for you in the dorms. Good hunting. You still got that pretty girl with you? Man, we’re gonna have a fucking  _ blast _ .”

“Looking forward to it, Lloyd,” whispered Monroe. “I’m a little busy right now, but you might hear from Miss Hawthorne later tonight.”

It took Monroe quite some time to get Lloyd to hang up. There was some new problems with the Caitiff. Some Anarch had been radicalising them and had half a mind to make DC a new Free State. Monroe promised he’d take care of it when he came.

As soon as he shut off the ever-present engine that had run for five days, Hawthorne woke with a start. She hardly looked well. Her dark hair, normally meticulously held together with spray and pins, was flattened on the side she had slept on. Her clothes were all black, as her custom, but they had long lost their crispness and were deeply wrinkled. She sat up and took in her surroundings.

“We made it, sir?” she asked, muffling a yawn.

“I believe so,” he said. 

One by one, Ventrue in suits and formal gowns exited their vehicles, which were slowly pulled away by their drivers. Every Ventrue interpreted the demand for formal clothes differently: black tails and white gloves, tuxedos, modern gowns, skirt suits, and even clothing from centuries Monroe was not familiar with. Unless the university was holding some bizarre convention on the same night, he was still on time.

Which meant he was late.

Monroe took the drycleaning bag from its hook and put on the tuxedo jacket. The rest would have to do. “Miss Hawthorne,” he said as he tied the white tie, “I ask that you take this time to refresh yourself. After the Forum, we might have to leave with some haste.”

“I’m fine—”

Before she could finish, her stomach grumbled loudly. Monroe smiled.

“Get something to eat, stretch your legs. When the Forum ends, I’m afraid we’ll have to impose on the hospitality of Prince Vitel of DC and bunk with Lloyd Morgan for a time.”

Hawthorne nodded. “Yes, sir. I hope it goes well.”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” he promised grimly.

After checking his hair once more in the rearview mirror, Monroe turned the keys over to Hawthorne and joined the procession of his clanmates into the amphitheatre. The security was tense. Not only ghouls, but lesser kindred as well. Their guns were obvious as they politely interrogated every attendee.

Sooner than he would’ve liked, Monroe found himself at the front of the line. Unlike most, he had come alone.

“Name and origins, sir?” asked the doorman. His black suit, shirt, and tie were decidedly less formal than any of the attendees. While even the newest Ventrue neonate ought’ve come, his rung was rather low.

“Matthew Monroe, Ninth of the Line of Artemis Orthia, childe of the late Alastair Fowler, the last Primogen of San Francisco.”

The doorman’s beady dark eyes narrowed. “How did  _ you  _ hear about the Forum?”

“The autarkis has his ways,” said a smooth cold voice from some feet behind him. It tickled his memories and Monroe had never been so pleased to hear it. “Yet his blood has been recognised by the Directorate. Admit him.”

Abashed, the doorman asked the same question he had asked every entry. “Do you, Mr Monroe, swear to uphold the sanctity of this 95th Ventrue Forum, to recognise this hallowed land as elysium, to draw no weapon or use any powers of our blood?”

“I do.”

Monroe waited in the entrance for Prince Marcus Vitel to swear the same oath. Monroe dropped to a knee and silently begged permission to pay his respects. The prince let him kiss the ring and the veins, and he stood.

Prince Vitel was a force scarce any understood. There were few princes willing to hold territory so deep in Sabbat lands, but no kindred was better equipped to rule from the American capital. His roots were in the rubble of ancient Rome, as evidenced by the heavy gold eagle hung from his neck, his features of the old Latin aristocracy.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for the reference,” said Monroe. “I do sincerely appreciate it.”

The prince nodded shortly and indicated for Monroe to follow him. The prince’s attendants — the sheriff and his cronies, as Lloyd had said — were too well-bred to glare, but were hardly pleased. As always, in the presence of a powerful Ventrue he respected, Monroe felt himself wither a little as he found his place. One step to the right, one behind.

“Mr Monroe, I have heard others of our blood curse you and decry you as a menace and shame to our clan,” he said mildly. “A greedy malcontent unwilling to pay his dues to his elders. Yet, others praise you for services rendered and your perchance for privacy. I choose to believe your presence here indicates the latter and your ties to our blood remain strong.”

“Your belief is accurate, sir,” said Monroe. The insults from the elder cascaded down him in waves of embarrassment.

The inside lobby of the amphitheatre was classical; crown moldings, deep blue wallpaper, and rich wood floorings for hundreds of highly polished shoes and heels to stomp upon. And there were hundreds, and hundreds more. More than Monroe cared to think about as he contemplated the collective ruling power of the Camarilla in this building. Less than a hundred Forums had been called in the clan’s four thousand year history. As part of his own agoge, Monroe recalled the details of every one. The last had been called by Monroe’s own grandsire, Madame Jenine Porte, to manage the fallout of the Anarch revolts in France after the French Revolution.

It brought a terrible question to mind. Monroe, luckily, was not too proud to admit his ignorance.

“Your Highness, might I ask who called this Forum?” 

Prince Vitel frowned slightly. “Another black sheep of the clan. Prince Michaela Vernon of Manhattan.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Monroe, mind spinning a hundred miles away. Michaela called herself a prince, though the Sabbat had held New York since it was Fort Orange. It was one of their crown jewels of the east coast. While she was surely formidable, as evidenced by her survival, nothing good could come if she had called a Forum and, as dutiful and honourable kindred, half of America had answered.

Poor woman. Likely, she would be politely asked to retire and that would be the end of Camarilla influence in New York, scarce though it was.

A few Ventrue hung around the perimeter of the lobby, exchanging greetings with passersby, paying their respects to the princes they recognised, and awaiting their companions. Most proceded into the amphitheatre. 

Prince Vitel dismissed Monroe with a curt hand as he and his attendants took the stairs to ascend to an overlook. Monroe was all too ready to leave the famous prince’s side. One more bow and Monroe hurried to disappear himself into the orderly queue. The theatre opened into a vast hall, rows upon rows of red seats facing the stage. Plush red velvet curtains closed off the stage from view. The show, Prince Michaela’s presentation, had not yet begun.

Monroe kept his feelings to himself, though he was thoroughly lost. If Vitel was heading up, surely princes and those of similar status would be in the balcony. That didn’t entirely mean the front row was designated for paupers. No one had reserved seating. This was ridiculous. Monroe chose a middling seat by the aisle and stood before it, trying to not attract attention to himself.

The clan was tightly knit, though most kindred spent their entire unlives in the city of their Embrace and, while there was a cordial respect for all in attendance, Monroe knew it was only a matter of time. He caught the eyes of those from cities he had lived in previously; Eleanor of Atlanta, Carlos Santore of Minneaplis, Prince Benedict of Las Vegas, and even several of Lodin’s brood. There was no love lost. Mostly, the eyes slid off Monroe, as though he weren’t worthy of their notice. It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

The seats of the theatre filled, more than he had expected. Hundreds. Many hundreds, perhaps even two thousand. 

Ancient tales came back to Monroe, pieces of the Ventrue oratory. The modern night Board was a descendent of the ancient Greek Gerousia, where vast public theatres had been commandeered for their monthly meetings. It was in those forums, and these Forums, that the deep list of titles had come from.

_ Praetor, aediles, questors, eiren.  _ Every title had ranks. Every Ventrue knew their place. For those without a place, of course, there were other titles.

_ Autarkis. Antitribu. _ Outcast, against-the-tribe, independent.

But Monroe was not antitribu. He had been appraised and seen worthy by the Directorate. His blood was in their ledger. Until he met Final Death or outright slew another Ventrue, he would be grudgingly accepted.

The lights went down. The conversation came to an abrupt halt. The red curtains drew back.

The show had begun. 

At the center of the stage, Prince Michaela and her own attendants stood before a large wooden desk, likely stolen from elsewhere in the university. A microphone had been set at each station. 

The prince sat and two thousand silent Ventrue sat, with growing apprehension.

“Good evening,” said the attendant on the prince’s left. Her voice held a touch of the old Mid-Atlantic accent. At this distance, Monroe could discern little of the prince’s appearance, other than her chosen symbol of her station: a gold crown. “I am Helene Panhard, Ninth of the Line of Medon, Herald of New York, and childe of Prince Michaela Vernon of New York. On behalf of the prince and all the kindred of New York, we thank you for making the journey on such short notice to be here with us here tonight. I will act as the Voice of the 95th Forum of Ventrue blood and I thank you for your cooperation.” She moved her notes. “The Forum recognises Prince Michaela Vernon, Eighth of the Line of Medon, and Prince of Manhattan.”

The prince stood and made her way to a waiting lectern. Among the hordes of calculating, bloodthirsty monsters, the only sound was her heels across the stage. “I look out into the faces of my blood,” she said, “and I see princes, primogen, members of Clan Ventrue who have ruled the kine and kindred justly for decades. Even centuries, though the New World is not quite so old.” She, too, had a Mid-Atlantic accent but there was something else. Something that, if Monroe heard it, everyone else did as well. Fear. “I consider myself a warrior of that legacy. My kindred are mine to defend. My city is mine to build. And the Sabbat have not taken that from me in sixty years. Most of you here know my story, so I shan’t bother wasting words on that. I know many of you hold me in esteem, while others hold me in disdain. I am not here to defend actions I take in the midst of war.

“The matter is that, while I can hold the dread Sabbat bishops of Ecaterina and Simon Arcimes for ever, there is a new enemy on the east coast.” Her voice grew louder. “The Sabbat have made a call to their own blood, and he has answered them. Francisco Domingo de Polonia, Cardinal of the Eastern Seaboard, and elder of Clan Lasombra. Even now, he leaves his cathedral in Miami and journeys to New York, where our influence will be lost forever if do not strike back with all the might of Clan Ventrue.

“I do not feel like I have to extoll the virtues of New York City, of what awaits for us there when we take it. A city on the world stage the likes of Berlin, London, DC, and Tokyo. We could strike no blow to the Sabbat that could ever rival their loss of New York. And this is a battle that can be won.”

A polite silence greeted her strong words. Prince Michaela had clearly been hoping for a reaction of some sort. 

“Blood of my blood,” she said solemnly, “I do solemnly plead for your assistance, cousins.” The Prince of Manhattan fell to a knee, head bent in submission before the Forum.

Had Ventrue the foul tempers of Brujah, the crowd would’ve frenzied.

It was one of the first lessons a new Ventrue was taught:  _ always answer the Ethic of Succor and never call upon it unless in need. _

It was a terrible dishonour to let the Ethic go unanswered, but she hadn’t addressed any single kindred by name. It was a loophole, one that every prince and elder in attendance would likely use.

Seconds turned into minutes. Absolutely still, silent minutes. 

Around him, Monroe could hear brains clicking as they puzzled through their next moves, scheming for  _ dignitas _ and favour, weighing their options. Steam seemed to peal off them.

Monroe found himself unable to take his eyes off the prince’s attendants. Each of them had a look that he recognised. A deep hollow fear, the type of fear that lives in the bones and becomes a part of daily life. Some shellshocked neonates gained the look and never survived in the world of kindred long, but that wasn’t the case here. It brought something to Monroe that was too close to home by far.

It was war. Manhattan wasn’t some final holdout of the Camarilla, an oasis where Michaela played dictator to her overly large brood as she Embraced cannon fodder to keep her domain. It was a foxhole.

The male attendant at the far left of the table was young by mortal years. Sixteen, perhaps. Dark hair, slight of build, a large nose and thick brow.

_ Terry Stewart _ . The name came unbidden from the depths of his memories. He hadn’t thought of the boy in years. The teenager in Monroe’s company, as a human. He practiced card tricks. Him and the attendant bore a close resemblance, but it wasn’t possible. Stewart had grown up, married, had children, and died over fifty years ago.

_ But what if it had been? _

Sixteen other names and faces came to mind. The men —  _ his _ men. They had been his responsibility, in the middle of conflicts with the Indians none of them cared about, and had seen and done terrible things to stay alive. He had done his best, kept them alive, sought to return them to their families in one piece — mentally and physically.

Michaela was trying her best.

There was nothing else for him to do.

Monroe stood.

No one spoke, but he heard collars and sleeves rustle as those around him exchanged looks. As the moments crept by, he felt eyes flick from the humble prince on stage to himself. Each new eye weighed more heavily than the one before.

The Voice broke the silence. “The Forum would recognise you, cousin. Please step to the stage.”

With legs of lead, Monroe made his way to the front row. New eyes found him. His stepped to mount the stage and the bright lights hit him. Two thousand Ventrue, shadowed by the stage’s lights. Princes and primogen, elders and their ears, the might of most every city in America and many more besides. Too many of them knew him.

_ A greedy malcontent unwilling to pay his dues. _

Monroe stood in front the microphone and waited to be addressed.

“What’s your name?” asked the Voice.

“Monroe,” he said briefly.

The Voice shuffled her papers for over a minute, searching through the names. She could’ve taken forever and Monroe still wouldn’t know what he would’ve said until he opened his mouth.

“The Forum recognises Matthew Monroe, Ninth of the Line of Artemis Orthia.”

The silence in the amphitheatre seemed to echo. No one moved, no one breathed. The absolute calm accompanied by thousands of staring eyes unnerved him.

“Blood of my blood, I answer the Ethic of Succor as pled by Prince Michaela Vernon of Manhattan,” he said. He caught sight of the massive audience again and lost his momentum, but he focused on the prince. She stood and returned to the lectern, her face unreadable. “As per the Ethic, I will answer it to the fullest extent of my resources and the deepest reaches of my soul. Ventrue to Ventrue, Your Highness, I will not let you face the Sabbat alone.”

A lone set of hands began to clap, from high up on the balcony. It was joined by twos and threes, banding together to create a tsunami of noise. Monroe knew they applauded him because if he answered it, it spared them from impugning their honour with silence. Perhaps, though, they applauded because they recognised the sacrifice, the duty that lingered in blood and had made Clan Ventrue so strong. They would work together to ensure the safety of New York’s kindred. They respected him for taking the stand.

It was a lie, but one easy to believe and so Monroe let it comfort him. For one brief shining moment, he felt once more like he was a part of the clan he wish existed rather than the one that did.


	7. 1999: New York

#  **1999**

##  **New York**

  
  


The room was empty of shadows. Like any room used for planning, the deepest subbasements of the World Trade Center had been lit with over a dozen high powered floodlights. No matter where anyone moved, they did not cast a shadow. Not under their shoes, not under the table, not on faces or beneath papers. The over exposed glare did no one’s countenance any favours, but it was safe. Elders of Clan Lasombra were masters of shadows and it was imperative to not allow them any eyes or ears.

Monroe had given his haven the same treatment, though he spent most days in the war bunker. A dozen high backed leather office chairs were pointed around a long glass table. He kicked his feet on the table, his chair creaking as he swayed it. The meeting had finished hours ago, decisions made he hadn’t agreed with. His presence was little more than a formality. While he had gained a great deal of respect in New York — more than he ever had in another city — among princes and archons at the war-table, he was an errand boy at most.

He flipped absently through the maps and schematics left behind. The waiting would drive him mad. He knew the New York sewers and streets better than any Nosferatu at this point.

The door opened.

He dropped his feet from the table and scrambled to stand.

It was Pieterzoon, looking quite worse for wear. His blue suit was untouched, but his blonde hair was out of place and he looked paler than usual. When he caught sight of Monroe, he shut his eyes briefly as though to gather himself. “Good. You’re still here,” he said in a voice that gave every indication it was not good.

“What happened with the peace talk?” asked Monroe.

Pieterzoon shrugged. The motion was unsettlingly casual. “As I advised, Polonia and the Sabbat would not respect it, but Prince Michaela was adamant.”

Monroe knew better than to push. Seven years ago, he had called in the only thing of true worth to his name: a minor boon owed to him by Prince Lodin. It gained him an audience with Lodin’s grandsire, Queen Anne of London. He managed to sway her opinion, perhaps too well. Everything after that moved so fast. The Justicars got involved. Archons flew in from around the world. Hardestadt, of course, had something to say and sent Pieterzoon to command the forces.

No single conflict had seen four archons — forces above the authority of petty princes — gather together in the Camarilla’s history. Pieterzoon had the unenviable job of convincing them to follow his lead. Unfortunately for Monroe, Pieterzoon had chosen him to act as an… advisor? Servant? Monroe was still uncertain what his official capacity was with the Camarilla representative, though Pieterzoon’s position felt similarly undefined.

Slowly and quietly, Pieterzoon sat in his usual spot and poured himself a measure of whiskey from a decanter most kindred assumed was for show. He tossed his glasses onto the table and drank with a pained look on his face.

“The prince is dead,” he said at last.

Monroe had expected as such. He sat next to Pieterzoon. “Polonia, I suspect?”

He nodded. “The archons and I escorted the prince and her seneschal to the arranged meeting place.” He waved a hand. “Some abandoned building in the Bronx. Polonia met us with his templars and made some speech about the Sabbat never surrendering — I’m sure the word ‘Antediluvian’ was mentioned once or twice. Before any of us could stop him, he went for his sword. The prince lost her head, and Archon DiPadua tackled Polonia out the window. His fellow Nosferatu recovered him, but I’m afraid the archon is torpid and Polonia escaped.” Pieterzoon poured himself another drink. “What a mess.”

“And Polonia’s templars?”

“Dead. We saw to that.” Pieterzoon cleaned his glasses off with a square of silk, deep in thought, before replacing them on his face. “I’ve meant to ask you this for some time, Mr Monroe. And, I would like to add, I ask not as an ambassador, a commander, or Camarilla official, but a cousin of our blood. Why did you answer the late Prince Michaela’s Ethic of Succor?”

The question surprised him, but an answer drilled into him long ago sprung to his lips. “The Ethic of Succor is inviolable,” Monroe recited. “It was her right to plead and my duty to answer.”

“I am not schooling a childe,” said Pieterzoon calmly. “I asked you a question of motivations, not definition.”

Caught off guard, Monroe could only stare as Pieterzoon sipped his mortal drink. With years of working close to the aloof kindred with over a century and uncountable status on him, Monroe couldn’t help but feel a desire to trust him, to be understood by one of his clan and especially one as prominent as Pieterzoon. 

“I didn’t do it for Michaela,” he admitted. “I didn’t do it for rewards, because I know I won’t get any. I did it for them.” Monroe gestured out the door Pieterzoon had just entered, where the barricaded kindred made their headquarters in the World Trade Center and nearby hotels and offices, which served as elysium, court, the only safe domain, and military command. “Because Prince Micheala is—was the guardian of their lives and prosperity. No matter how they curse and spurn us, they look to Clan Ventrue to protect them, and she pled for assistance from her clan. I might’ve been ostracised from the rights of the clan on occasion, but I cannot disregard the responsibilities.”

Pieterzoon didn’t so much as blink. His distant expression made Monroe second guess his words. “Why did you ever leave the clan?” asked Pieterzoon.

There was a softness, a gentle understanding to his voice. Monroe didn’t know if it was Presence, acting, or earnesty, but the words tumbled from his mouth faster than he could stuff them back in. “The petty squabbles,” he said with disgust. “The misuse and abuse of power by our clan, the despotic leadership, the abusive sires, and every kindred who dare call themselves Ventrue but dishonours the legacy the clan was built on. It seems that so many of our blood seek power, not for what good it could do, but how it might benefit their own  _ dignitas _ in the eyes of others.”

For a moment, Monroe thought he had gone too far. That, even in private, such blatant accusations and divisions in the clan were improper to discuss out loud.

Then he saw Pieterzoon smile. The expression was stiff, as though it didn’t come naturally to him. “Cainites are jealous, scheming creatures, even Ventrue,” he said. “I know well the issues you state, but you do no one any good by removing yourself — your talents, resources, and blood — from the clan that you do benefit.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Monroe carefully, “I believe I have done good. Many outcasts of the Camarilla can still be put to good purpose. Even if their contribution is net zero, giving them a chance to prove themselves is worth my investment.”

As per his custom, Pieterzoon commanded the quiet and took his time before responding. When he did, it was so brief, Monroe almost missed it. “I concur.” He pulled close the schematics of the sewers. “The Nosferatu Justicar will want to send a replacement archon, to ensure history says Justicar Robin played his part…”

Pieterzoon continued to think aloud to himself as Monroe absorbed the Camarilla official’s approval. More dangerous than his approval was the hope it gave Monroe. Hope that maybe the clan, at large, wasn’t as hollow as it first appeared to be.

“...have to strike soon, before Polonia bloods new templars. I do so mislike having my hand forced.”

“We’ve been planning the strike for nearly seven years,” said Monroe. “We could plan another twenty more with little to be gained—”

“And yet every gain made would be another advantage. Two months is not much time at all to purge the Sabbat from a city the size of New York.”

_ Purge _ . To completely eliminate, drive out, burn to the roots. A Camarilla purge, enacted by Justicars and archons, was something to be deeply feared by any kindred who bore witness. Looking over the planning, which detailed actions to the minute, a cold finger ran down Monroe’s spine. 

Pieterzoon took his glasses off again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Which is further complicated by the prince’s death,” he said blandly. “If we do not have a strong rule in place once the Sabbat have been purged, New York won’t last a fortnight.”

“Then, it has to be someone strong, that kindred will obey and expect a strong leadership from, someone who will bear the yoke of power, but be willing to step down once a long term court has been finalised,” said Monroe slowly.

Pieterzoon’s eyes narrowed and he inclined his head. “Have you a name for this paragon?”

“Calebros,” said Monroe at once. “Nosferatu, disinterested in registered power, but he’s an elder — both crafty and powerful. His clan are well respected here and he’s sure to maintain a position of social power long after a high clan takes the crown.”

Pieterzoon considered it. “He might make a fine  _ prince pro tempore _ . From what meetings I’ve had with him, I’ve found him to be passionate about his people.”

“The most important quality in a ruler,” said Monroe.

“Is it?” Pieterzoon had long ago perfected the art of making another second guess their entire worldview with a handful of words and a look of polite surprise.

But Monroe had decided a half century ago that this was in fact the hill he was prepared to die on.

“Yes, sir,” he insisted respectfully. “Ruling titles among kindred, at times, operate like a revolving door. In a century, there might be as many as five princes, two dozen primogen, and countless heralds, harpies, and sheriffs. In that same century, the masses will either prosper or struggle under the sum of the few who’ve ruled them. Even if Calebros lasts five years before one of Michaela’s brood claws her way to that scrap of gold she liked to wear, whatever foundation for success he put in place will outlast him. Do you have a different opinion, sir?”

“Not at all,” said Pieterzoon with the same note of polite surprise. “I merely thought, as per our prior conversation, that you might hold an opinion that elders are the most susceptible to the petty jyhad.”

“I don’t necessarily disagree with that statement,” said Monroe. He flipped through the pages and found the map and timetable he was searching for. It showed south Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge. Both were covered in an organized chaos of colour coded numbers and symbols. The first attack, shortly before dusk, as made by ghouls and joined at sundown by Archon Theo Bell’s force of Brujah. “I would trust Calebros as a prince, primarily, because I know where he’ll be on day one.” Monroe pointed to the bridge, and his finger slid back to the maze of skyscrapers where they now sat. “And I know where Michaela’s brood is, where the Toreadors are playing at court.”

“Where will you be?” asked Pieterzoon. He leaned forward with interest.

“I am of the blood of Artemis Orthia, the Warrior God of Sparta,” said Monroe with a wry smile. “Where else would I be?”

“You relish the opportunity?”

Monroe lost his smile. That night was coming far too fast for his liking. “Not at all. I’ve killed our kind. I’ve been to battle as a mortal. I could never send a fresh fledgling off to their death, knowing I myself would never see combat when I’m perfectly capable.” Monroe gave another look to Pieterzoon’s slim frame. Such things might be deceiving, as far as supernatural strength and skill went. “I meant no offence, sir.”

“None taken,” he said lightly. “We all have our abilities.” He piled together the papers, tamping them into place and tucking them into immense folders. “New York could be the city the ancillae of the New World have been waiting a century for.”

“I agree completely,” said Monroe. He didn’t expect a reward from the justicars, but he trusted in Calebros’s honour so far as to not forget about him. “Positions of influence and power have long been held by ceaseless elders, despite said elders encouraging their childer to make names for themselves.”

Pieterzoon smiled again. “Yes, that is quite the paradox of kindred. Elders do not relinquish power, and yet keep producing strong new blood that would make fine rulers — if the world was only a touch larger. The young have ideas for improvements and their blood has not yet cooled into the passivity and apathy of schemes.”

Spurred by his words that Monroe recognised so much of his own feelings in, he overstepped his lines. “Mr Pieterzoon, if I may be so bold, could I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Mr Monroe. Whatever you wish.”

“When the late Prince Michaela dismissed me from New York and said I fulfilled the Ethic of Succor, you requested I remain at your service. Why?”

Though not quite officially an archon — though Camarilla law was still out on that matter, as archon merely referred to an “agent” of a Camarilla official, which his sire, Hardestadt the Founder, clearly counted as — Pieterzoon was well within his rights to draft any kindred of a domain to his service. Theoretically, soldiers, spies, court figures and advisors, those of significant power or influence. Monroe had very little to offer.

Pieterzoon blinked, the first time Monroe had seen him do the disturbingly human action. “I requested your service because I felt you might want to have a part in the battle to come. From your nomadic reputation, I understand you to be competent and resourceful. To publicly claim a name such as autarkis, you must have been clever and ruthless, yet wise enough to know when to leave. But, your continued actions with the clan and sect, not to mention your attendance and participation in the last Forum, indicated to me that, above all, you are a rare breed of Ventrue. You share the temperment of several — if not many, Embraced from military stock: honourable to a fault, dutiful, with a dedication to those in your care that outstrips mere party lines, and a mind ill-suited to schemes and intrigue.

“In short, Mr Monroe, you are exactly what you appear to be. It’s refreshing, in truth, and you’ve performed admirably.”

Lost for words, Monroe inspected his folded hands for several minutes. When he did speak, his voice was thin. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Pieterzoon. “I hope your time in New York will give you the necessary tools to claim a position of authority in the clan and Camarilla. You would do well.”


	8. 2000: Boon

#  **2000**

##  **Boon**

  
  


Monroe drove fast. Faster than he should’ve. He risked interaction with the mortal justice system if he continued to drive like this. But his eyes were clouded with red. Unshed blood tears he refused to let go. They had sat in his eyes for hours as he drove.

Faster.

He could still see Lucinde, Ventrue Justicar. A porcelain doll if there ever was one, with blonde ringlets and a sword on her belt, spotless white gloves on her hands. The whole noble procession and courtly service as the justicars had made their appearance alongside their archons.

_ On behalf of the Inner Circle and my fellow justicars, Mr Monroe— _

There were so many great ways to end that sentence.

_ Your excellent work will live on in the kindred who name the towers of this city home. _

_ New York will forever be in your debt. _

A fucking  _ thank you _ would’ve been a start.

Almost a decade of his life, every moment of it, devoted to the Battle of New York. His only thing of value — the boon of Prince Lodin — surrendered, along with tens of millions of dollars, more of his money than he ever thought he’d give up. Two months in the trenches, in the midst of an open kindred—nay,  _ vampire _ street war fought with fangs, machetes, shotguns, bombs, flamethrowers, and more Disciplines than he had thought possible. He had taken a shotgun blast in his left shoulder that still didn’t heal right. 

Why always the left shoulder?

Monroe cracked it and hissed at the pain. He thumped the steering wheel and directed blood to heal it. His fangs ached. Deeply. He was starving.

He drove faster.

_ On behalf of the Inner Circle and my fellow justicars, Mr Monroe, your work here is done and you may leave. _

And no one had said a thing. Not Calebros, who became prince on Monroe’s advisory. Not any of the kindred who he had fought beside. Not one of the archons, who had come to respect him. Not even Pieterzoon. 

Some small, distant logical part of his mind told Monroe that Pieterzoon couldn’t have said a thing. Even among the justicars, Lucinde had too much clout. Her word was law wherever she showed her face. If Pieterzoon had opened his mouth to so much as say farewell, his sire would’ve had his hide for talking out of turn in front of her.

But Monroe didn’t want to be logical. He wanted to be mad. He sunk into the destructive impulses of his Beast, who loved the race of the car, the whip of the streetlights in the darkness, how the few cars at this hour were mere blips in his rearview mirror.

“Sir.” The voice wasn’t frightened, but it was human. It reminded him of her existence, that, despite being a ghoul, she wouldn’t survive the type of car crashes he would.

Monroe hit the steering wheel again and swallowed back his fangs. “I’ll… I’ll slow down.” 

He pulled off the interstate, heading to DC, and found himself in Baltimore by the looks of the signs. Driving a more sensible speed, the pains of his hunger only grew stronger. The edge of the city was dominated by the remains of industry warehouses and factories. Graffiti tags covered the lower third of the tall buildings, while litter and tents piled against chain link fences by the railways.

Monroe found a length of quiet road and pulled over. He hung his head in his hands. The skin was almost warm to the touch, flush with blood in preparation for feeding. His fangs ached with an almost human heartbeat. Hawthorne’s scent filled the car.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said dimly. “I… I need to feed. I’ll be back.”

He opened the door before she could offer her own blood. He had drank from her too much during the battle. The blood of old ghouls was strong, powerful. Ghouls could stand being drunk from perhaps weekly, but he had drained her strength too far and too often.

The clear air of the industrial wasteland was hardened with the remnants of smoke and chemicals. They were on the edge of a rundown residential area. The lights of a gas station stood out across the street from a cemetary.

A smell lured him. He stumbled to follow it. That deep luxurious scent that called to his Beast. Blood of orphans. Gas station attendant? Likely as any other. Everyone was an orphan, if they were old enough. 

Monroe crossed the abandoned road. What was it? Two? Three in the morning? Dawn would approach in a few hours. He needed to find a motel and barricade himself in the bathtub. Oh, the woes of the traveling kindred.

Some scrawny and pale human thug leaned against the entrance to the cemetery in a dirty white tank top and sagging blue jeans. He tapped a baseball bat against his shoes. In this neighbourhood, it was Monroe who stood out. He gave a hearty wave and a smile.

The thug hissed and bared fangs.

Monroe gave him a second look, but they were gone.

Sabbat. No Camarilla would break the Masquerade so brazenly and for such little reason. His Beast crowed, egged him, pushed him. Because Sabbat Embraced for war so frequently, they were mostly quite high generation. Monroe was stronger — and hungry. And kindred blood, to his own discovery in war, was so much better than human blood.

Some small, distant logical part of his mind said otherwise. Sabbat operate in packs. If there’s one, there might be three or four others. There was no guarantee that he could even coherently operate Disciplines in his current state. He had a pistol in his belt, but no serious weapons for taking down kindred. 

But Monroe didn’t want to be logical. His was the blood of Artemis Orthia, of Democritus, of Warrior Gods. And he was hungry.

He made his way towards the thug. “How’re you doing, young man?” he asked with a savage smile. “ _ Drop the baseball bat.”  _

The thug’s eyes glazed over and Monroe felt his fingers grab hold of the Sabbat’s will. All the simple command needed was a delicate poke — Monroe crushed it.

The Sababt’s features fell slack for a moment and he obeyed hastily.

“Have friends in there?” asked Monroe, but the Sabbat was still struggling to put his mind back together. Oh well. 

Monroe wrenched the Sabbat’s head back and bit into the neck. Kindred blood didn’t flow like human blood, since there was no moving heart to pump it around. Monroe brought his ragdoll meal to the ground and fed rapidly. The blood took him from starving to overly full in moments. It vibrated through his limbs and filled him with a pleasure so sweet it hurt. The Beast purred. The blood thickened like tar, like an ichor, and with it came flashes of memory and emotions.

It took Monroe all his strength, but he pulled his fangs from the near corpse and resisted the urge to devour the soul. With almost all his blood gone, the Sabbat was near death anyways. Almost growling, Monroe pawed through the Sabbat’s pockets quickly. The Sabbat moaned and raised a weak hand against him.

Monroe pulled out a handful of lint, a small action figure, a wallet of stolen money with no ID, a wicked ceremonial knife, a pack of matches, and a garotte of steel wire. He considered the garotte briefly before throwing a lit match on the Sabbat’s bare skin. The vampire lit like a Roman candle, thrashing and hissing against the agony.

Monroe stepped back in a hurry and mastered his fear. It was only happenstance that he happened to look into the cemetery as he stood, rather than returning hastily to his car to continue onto the safety of DC. 

There were figures in the cemetery. Two, standing off to the side, with flashlights. The beams of the lights played over a patch of freshly turned earth. They had Embraced. Sabbat initiations were gruesome at best: common humans, unknowing, compelled to dig their own graves before being murdered and tossed in with the merest drop of kindred vitae to animate them. Knocked unconscious, they would be forced to dig their way out of their graves.

It was no way to enter a world already filled with suffering.

Monroe unholstered his pistol. Kindred didn’t fear .9mm, but most tended to like their kneecaps. He lined up his shot and, briefly thought about returning to the car to pick up Hawthorne, but then he fired.

He hit his target. The one on the left collapsed to his knees, cursing and growing. The second spun around.

“Who was that?”

Monroe breathed slowly and let the Obfuscate wash over him. It was a power rarely seen outside Nosferatu, but one owed him a favour a few decades ago and he demanded it in payment. The shadows fell over him and, while he didn’t become invisible, the shrewd wandering eyes of the second Sabbat moved past him. So long as he didn’t move.

“Come on, Pat, get up!  _ Get up _ ! I’ll find whoever did this and rip their heart out.” The Sabbat roved through the tombstones, a shovel in one hand, a shotgun in the other. “Hey, Nick, did you hear that? Nick?”

Monroe glanced down to the still smoldering corpse of “Nick” and shrugged. The smoke and jumping sparks made his Beast whimper and whine, but he held himself steady. A statue. The other Sabbat would come by any second.

Just as the Sabbat left the graveyard, a moment before he saw the charred remains of his packmate, Monroe tackled him and grappled for the shotgun. Stunned, the Sabbat clung to his weapon tightly. When he recognised it was another kindred who attacked him, he snarled, the once-human features transforming into something truly crazed.

“ _ Stop moving _ ,” commanded Monroe. He stopped fighting to take the gun and just pinned the wild Sabbat. The will was like a living thing in his grasp, wriggling like a snake, a Beast. Monroe lost himself in the mental fight for dominance. Inadvertently, his grip slackened.

The Sabbat threw the gun away and launched them against the cemetery wall. The impact jarred his bones and cracked the stone behind him. Jaws growled and snapped, bringing a dazed Monroe back to the physical world. The bloody fangs were inches from his neck. The Beast snarled through Monroe’s face and whispered in his ear.

_ Come on. Comeoncomeon. Fight to the death. First fangs in flesh wins. _

The Beast had saved his life more times than he could remember these last two months. Monroe surrendered to it, trusting, and took a backseat for a moment.

The Beast arched his neck. The Sabbat, thrilled at the prospect of a surrender, lurched, but the Beast snapped his fangs back and bit into the arm that pinned his wrists above his head. The fangs entered, mere millimeters. The sharp sudden flash of ecstasy broke the Sabbat’s hold. Monroe regained control for long enough to tear his fangs through the Sabbat’s neck.

The Beast didn’t feed. It killed. It tore through and shook like a dog with a chew toy. The Beast destroyed the Sabbat in moments with fangs. Little of the blood made it into Monroe’s throat. Most of it stained the sidewalk, his clothes, pouring down the Sabbat’s flesh.

The blood began to have a rotten taste and Monroe realised the Sabbat was dead. Beyond dead. He couldn’t have been old. Final Death had taken hold, letting time rot the body. The eyes clouded like marbles, the bones sticking at angles as the soft, spongy flesh sunk in.

Wiping his mouth, Monroe tore his gaze from the bodies he made. Someone — likely him — would have some work to do later with this. But, for now, there was the matter of the Sabbat Embraces and the one lacking a kneecap.

Monroe took the discarded shotgun. Sawed off, double barrel. All it needed was dragon’s breath ammo. Even so, it would do the job. Monroe checked the ammo and pumped it back in.

The final Sabbat was where he had been left. Young — youngyoungyoung — too young to know how to heal with blood. Monroe had counted on the stunt buying him a little time, not taking him out. The Sabbat trembled with the effort of trying to stand, beads of clear, human sweat dripping down his forehead. Too young.

But, taking a Sabbat and trying to deprogram the cult’s conditioning was far above Monroe’s paygrade.

“Please, I—”

Monroe put the shotgun barrel under the Sabbat’s chin and pulled the trigger. The kid met Final Death in a shower of bone, blood, and brain. The body didn’t decompose at all. It merely collapsed.

Monroe threw aside the shotgun and picked up a discarded flashlight. The patch of freshly turned earth — the graves of new vampires — was large. Maybe ten feet square, and the vampires would be six feet under. He couldn’t hope to dig through it all. The hunger madness, the early frenzy would drive any who survived their Embrace into terrible fever dreams that would it almost impossible for them to enter civilized kindred society.

He picked up a shovel and broke the earth. Soon, his suit was covered in more dirt than blood. His muscles worked without pause, without exertion, throwing aside spadefuls of earth like a windmill. He didn’t breathe, eyes flicking over the patch of earth for any signs of movement. Privately, he hoped that the young pack’s Embraces had been unsuccessful and all that awaited him were bloodless corpses.

Monroe was in a pit to his shoulder when the ground under him began to tremble. It felt like an earthquake. He fell to his knees and pawed away the dirt.

“Can you hear me?” he called. “It’s alright. I’m a friend. You’ll be okay.”

A hand reached through the dirt and grasped his with desperation. Monroe stood and pulled with all his strength. The body slid out of the loose earth, panting and snarling and crying at the bottom of the grave. It was a young man, covered in dirt. But he didn’t frenzy. He curled into himself, like a human child.

“Hungry?” asked Monroe. He sat down next to the shivering mess of a kindred and bit open his own wrist. “I know, it’s—”

The kindred sobbed but reached for the wrist in a flash. Instinct overruled whatever terrible emotions he felt and the fledgling began to feed. When he remembered to, he sobbed and breathed, but mostly, he fed.

Monroe let the kid shiver and cry against him. He wrapped his free arm around the filthy body for whatever measure of support he could give. He hadn’t been too late. Perhaps, he should’ve been pleased to save his life, but there was a deep sadness to an abandoned fledgling — a murdered human knowing nothing about the terrible world they were now a part of. 

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

He shook his head. Somewhere in New York, hours away, the Justicars were dividing the city up into domains to be ruled and protected, high in some skyscraper and attended to by their archons, as they drank blood in crystal and toasted their own cleverness.

And Monroe was in some cemetery in the middle of nowhere, covered in dirt and blood, feeding his own vitae to some traumatized fledgling. Alone.

  
  


“So, tell me again, I’m a  _ what _ ? Anti…?”

“ _ Antitribu _ ,” said Monroe. “A Ventrue, funnily enough. But no one should know a Sabbat turned you. Most of us are very caught up with linages — sins of the father and all that.”

Justin Merlot wrinkled his nose. Once he had showered and put on some clean clothes, the boy was almost presentable. Almost. His apartment and clothes had a powerful aroma of motor oil grease and a gentle layer of dust and disregard. By his almost empty kitchen cupboards and apartment clean of modern technology, it was clear he struggled to get by. 

“Right,” said Justin. “I’m kinda with you. Mostly not.”

Monroe had put himself up in a motel a few streets down from Justin’s crummy apartment, though he spent all his nights at his new charge’s place. Every night he secretly imposed on Garlotte’s hospitality, the greater the prince’s ire was likely to be. But Monroe had spent many hours gently rearranging Justin’s memories. He didn’t need to remember the Sabbat Embrace or his climb from the grave. With the immediate memories and feelings suppressed, the fledgling had taken on a new life. And attitude.

The major questions had been answered. Yes, you are a vampire, this is how society works. No, you don’t need to go back to your job, but you can if you want to. No, you can’t tell your girlfriend, in fact, it’s best if you break up with her and never talk to your friends again. That last one had hurt. Like most, Justin had taken great offence to the idea. He would learn. Monroe hoped it wouldn’t be at the expense of one of their lives.

“So, let me get this straight,” said Justin. “Baltimore’s got a secret vampire prince and I need to go meet him because I’m part of this super-secret undead society.”

“Yes,” said Monroe mildly. “Hopefully, tonight. And I mean ‘prince’: bowing, groveling, respectful like you’re meeting the president. He might threaten you or want to kill you, but I’ll be there.”

“Like… ‘kill me’ kill me?” stammered Justin. “Why? What’ve I done?”

Monroe rubbed his hands together and shrugged in a hopeless sort of way. “Nothing. But fledglings can be a terrible risk if they don’t have a trusted sire or guide.”

“That’s where you come in,” said Justin, starting to understand.

“Most of us are selfish, conniving monsters who just want to get ours, fuck everyone else. I’m telling you this so that, when you do get to court and you do meet others of our kind, you won’t be tempted to trust them.”

“Then why should I trust you?” asked Justin. A flicker of fear echoed in his eyes. He started to breathe intermittently as he remembered to.

“Because I give you my word,” said Monroe simply. “I am a Ventrue. My word is sacred to me. So long as you are in my charge, I will teach you what I know and I will protect you from harm with everything at my disposal. I cannot be bought, I have no price.”

“You’re making it sound like I’m gonna go join the mafia.” Justin laughed weakly, but stopped laughing when Monroe didn’t.

“That’s not entirely wrong.”

  
  


The Lord Baltimore Hotel was everything Monroe remembered it to be. Towering, flush with gold and green marble, with every accoutrement of a century gone by. Down to and including the security and staff, who wore stately suits of a peculiar cut that made the entire place feel that much more like stepping into a different time. For aged kindred, it was a mighty game of pretend, as they were able to leave behind the confusing modern world and return to the familiar age.

Monroe managed to pick out Isaac Goldwin, the sheriff and Garlotte’s favourite childe, in the lobby. The sheriff was deep in talks with one of his deputies, a local Gangrel Monroe also knew by sight if not name.

“Cousin,” said Monroe with a disarming smile. Goldwin raised his eyes and froze, as though caught in headlights. “It appears I’m back in town. Would love a moment with your father.”

The mention of his sire made Goldwin’s eyes flutter. He was scarcely forty and still caught in that complex dance of fear and admiration that accompanied Ventrue childer. “I’ll — Follow me, actually.” Goldwin glared at his Gangrel friend. “We’ll talk of that  _ later _ .”

Goldwin led Monroe and Justin to an elevator, which took them to the private quarters of Prince Alexander Garlotte. Goldwin asked for a moment to introduce them, wincing slightly as he did so.

Given another moment alone, Monroe straightened Justin’s tie again. Yet, as though compelled by some inner force of the fledgling, the tie sat crooked again. Monroe knew he hadn’t tied it wrong. Justin smiled.

“The prince’s first childe, Isaac Goldwin,” explained Monroe in a whisper. “He acts as the prince’s detective, like chief of police.”

Justin nodded, but didn’t appear to take it in. “Swanky joint. Looks like the Titanic. Are all vampires rich?”

Monroe glared. “It’s not a rule, but generally, yes. Leave ten dollars in a bank account for a hundred years, you see what happens.”

Frustrated, Monroe undid the tie and put it around his own neck, tying it straight and then shoving it back into Justin’s hands. “Just, keep yourself together and polite. Speak as little as possible.”

Justin rolled his eyes and slipped the tie back on.

“Yes, and  _ that _ , don’t do that to the prince,” hissed Monroe. He gathered himself, but was already cursing his decision to take on the fledgling. Not truly, but it was a familiar frustration and one that he knew, in a few years, he would miss. At the moment, such a thing seemed impossible.

Goldwin slipped through the heavy cream doors. “Come on in.”

Though Garlotte and Alastiar Fowler couldn’t have been more different in looks, they both carried themselves with a commanding aura of fear and a voice that expected to be obeyed. Garlotte’s hair was a deep black, his beard strong and more full than modern styles favoured, his features older than Fowler’s, and his double breasted suit was cut in classical lines that mirrored the rest of his establishment. His private quarters were lush and rich, decorated as though by a stuffy English lord, which was exactly what Garlotte sounded like when he opened his mouth.

Goldwin gestured to his sire with a slight bow. “I have the honour of introducing Prince Alexander Garlotte of the Clan Ventrue, Seventh of the Line of Medon, Prince of Baltimore.”

Monroe bowed and dropped to a knee. Garlotte let him kiss the ring and veins before standing. Monroe thought it best not to espouse his lineage and the prince’s disgusted expression proved him right.

“It seems some things never change,” said the prince. “Once more, I find the tides of fate washing Caitiffs upon my front step. It is only for your service to the Camarilla I grant you the clemency to be in my presence.”

Garlotte’s eyes narrowed as he took in Justin. Monroe had done his best — the boy wore a suit, but it was off the rack and didn’t take to his small, skinny frame, his hair was brushed and gelled at least — but it was clear he was a fledgling. All Monroe could do was hope he didn’t pull any faces.

“I know the autarkis. Who are you?”

Justin bowed, a little awkwardly, and extended a hand for the prince to shake. “I’m Justin Merlot. Sir. Lived in Baltimore all my life, love the city—your city. Done… great work with it. Big fan… of your work.” Retracting the ignored hand, Justin gave the prince two thumbs up.

Monroe almost laughed at the perplexed look on Garlotte’s face. “Where did you find this?” he demanded.

Monroe had prepared his story and delivered it smoothly. “I found him and his sire in battle with a Sabbat pack on the edge of town. By the time I arrived on the scene, one of the pack was dead, as was the sire. I managed to take down the other two and rescue the fledgling. He knows nothing of our world, but he does have our blood.”

Garlotte reached out a hand to Justin. Justin, pleased to shake the prince’s hand, gave his own, but Garlotte bit into the wrist and threw the arm back. Justin cried out and held the arm close to him. It was the same taste Monroe had confirmed once Justin had regained his wits: Ventrue, perhaps eleventh generation.

Garlotte tasted the blood and spat it out in disgust. “I’m not missing any Ventrue,” he told Monroe. His eyes narrowed. “Who was the sire?”

“I’m afraid, Your Highness, I haven’t been in Baltimore for many years, I couldn’t possibly guess as to—”

Garlotte extended his hand to Monroe, who dutifully gave his wrist. The sharp flash of pain wasn’t tempered by the pleasure of the Kiss and it throbbed as Monroe healed it. Garlotte tasted Monroe’s blood and spat it out, too, more violently and in Goldwin’s general direction. Goldwin jumped.

“I didn’t sire the childe,” said Monroe.

“Clearly,” said Garlotte coldly. “Why didn’t you come to your prince immediately upon finding Sabbat in the city?”

“Sir, with all due respect, Sabbat are fleeing New York at great speeds,” said Monroe. “Nearby Sabbat cities are already overfull, it was only a matter of time before Camarilla cities begin seeing Sabbat combatants.”

“And you sent  _ two _ of them to the Final Death? By yourself?”

_ Actually, three _ .

Monroe stood a little straighter. “Yes, sir.”

Garlotte contemplated that. “Last you were here, Monroe, there was no Ventrue Primogen,” he said with a note of finality. “Things are the same.  _ I _ speak for the Clan of Kings of Baltimore. No other. I did not approve this Embrace, therefore I do not recognise this kindred as being of Clan Ventrue. He will be noted as Caitiff, unless one can positively identify his sire as being a recognised blood of the Directorate. I grant you leave to stay in Baltimore, without domain, but I do not want to remember you exist. You will not come to elysium. You will not arrange business with my kindred. You will not hunt outside the Rack, if you must at all. And I will not abide by anymore secret Sabbat slayings. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir,” said Monroe with a smile. It was far more than he expected.

“Then, you are dismissed. And, Monroe, I do hope this is the very last time we ever see each other.”

Monroe bowed and felt Justin do the same. “I feel much the same, sir.”

The heavy cream doors shut closed behind them. Justin walked mutely beside Monroe, throwing the staff and other guests at the hotel strange looks, as any of them might’ve been kindred. More than once, Justin opened his mouth only to snap it shut again.

Smiling to himself, Monroe slipped into the backseat of the car with Justin. Hawthorne smoothly pulled away from the curb.

“Destination, sir?”

“Justin’s apartment.”

“What’re we gonna do now?” asked Justin. The question burst from him desperately. “I mean, you were saying about, like, the society and the court, and—”

“Now, we get to be left to ourselves,” said Monroe mildly. “Tell me, Justin, have you ever wanted to own a house?”

  
  


Among humans, everything came easier as a kindred. Monroe chose to stake his claim in a nice suburb outside any known kindred influence. With Justin at his side, he watched Monroe’s subtle application of Dominate and Presence that let the realtor lower the price… and lower it again. Not suspiciously rock bottom, but definitely an excellent deal. The furniture was bought with a black credit card and nary a thought. Justin had scant possessions to bring with him, Monroe only his ambitious record collection and the small armory he kept in the trunk. 

For a time, Monroe was proud of the modicum of human existence he was able to provide for Justin. He went to community college part time while working night shifts at a local mechanic’s. He took Monroe’s advice, as hard as it was, to break up with his girl, but she had only been a casual thing. Very quickly Justin discovered how easy it was to pick up girls and feed on them, the mutual ecstacy and pleasure easily disguised as drugs or hook-ups. His parents called every now and then, but understood he was busy.

On his nights off, Justin learnt the academia of kindred history and culture. If Justin was truly blocked forever from Clan Ventrue, Monroe saw little reason to give him the tools of Machiavelli. The only truly necessary trait — a deep mistrust of all kindred — came naturally to him.

Monroe kept himself to himself, doing what he did best. He occupied his time with mortal music trends and learning new instruments. Every few nights he made a point to call another contact of his in another city, if only to catch up. His strays were always pleased to hear from him and full of news and stories. Eagerly, Monroe lived vicariously through their escapades in elysium and the Board. 

In the kitchen, Hawthone continued her private rituals of cooking and eating. The clink of utensils and sizzling of cooking food. She hummed along with a song that played on a boombox. The sounds comforted Monroe, even long after he had hung up his dreadful call.

Tonight, Sandra had told him that Bartholomew Vaughn, the erstwhile Baron of San Francisco since overthrowing the Camarilla in 1944, had renounced the Anarch Free State and returned his city to the Camarilla. Now, he was prince. Monroe fingered the brass key to the apartment and felt a familiar pang of homesickness.

Monroe was adamant he didn’t  _ scheme _ as such, but he did dream. Was sixty years enough time for the long memories of kindred to forget? Would Barty welcome him or eye him with suspicion? Once, Monroe thought he knew Barty, but sixty years was a long time. Monroe’s ambitions were hardly grand. He hoped to find a place to set down roots, to live among his kind, to establish an operation of some gravity — perhaps in the music business. Barty could keep his crown. His allies could keep the courtly titles. Even the Board. He loathed to admit it, but Monroe was getting tired of driving from city to city, searching for crumbs from princes who were anxious to see the back of him.

The front door opened. A pair of shoes stomped off snow. Justin entered with a smile and his shaggy hair full of snow flakes.

“Hola, amigo,” he said with a wave.

Monroe gave the kid a two finger salute. He put the key away. Before he could ever think of settling, he needed to settle his own responsibilities. 

“Thinking of getting a quick bite, wanna come?” asked Justin.

“Sure.”

Despite Garlotte’s dangerous threats to avoid business with his kindred, Monroe told himself he couldn’t help it if his kindred wanted to do business with him. Such was the prerogative of the Toreador proprietor Loreson, who owned a neat little restaurant and night club. A few calls, some influence pulled in Boston on the Toreador’s behalf, and Monroe had quiet use of the club to feed.

Monroe let Justin drive, so used was he to having another do it for him. The kid didn’t mind, anyways. They took the cherry Ferrari that Justin had asked for, somewhat jokingly, as a thank-you-for-meeting-the-prince gift, back when he thought Monroe had been facetious about most kindred having wealth. 

This late, the restaurant and night club was much more the latter than the former. The line waiting outside wasn’t long, but would grow soon, and was full of humans dressed most unseasonably and with excessive black lipstick and leather.

The doorman waved them through, despite their relative conservative dress of jeans and button downs. Justin, however, didn’t take to the dance floor or even the bar. He high tailed it up to a table on the second level. By the time Monroe caught up to him, the boy was browsing a menu.

“I thought we were going to get something to eat,” said Monroe pointedly.

Justin took off his coat and slouched deep in his chair. “We are.” He waggled the menu. “I want more practice eating. Mom told me she’d kill me if I didn’t turn up for Thanksgiving.”

A wave of shame passed through Monroe. It had been some time since he had felt this degree of failure. Clearly, he hadn’t impressed upon Justin just how deathly serious this condition was. After all, to Justin’s perspective, nothing that had happened since being attacked by that Sabbat had been necessarily bad.

Monroe sat across from Justin. Up here, everything was burnished steel and heavy black lace. It felt like being a futuristic dream of a Victorian Toreador, which happened to be exactly the aesthetic Loreman was going for. The music was muted from downstairs, but the sound still played over the tables.

“Does spicy matter? I know, I won’t keep it down long, but is there any  _ taste _ or is it always beige or should I be going for really strong, like, pungent tastes?”

“Justin, hey,” said Monroe with a half smile. “I’m sorry, I am, but Thanksgiving isn’t a good idea.”

Justin shrugged the words off. “You can’t just ignore  _ family _ like that. I’m going. Now, I just need to figure out how best to figure this out. Sure, I’ll skip lunch and come late to dinner. No big deal. ‘The shop’s open on Thanksgiving; I was just working.’ Now, about eating—”

A waitress summoned herself from thin air. Her high blonde ponytail and red lipstick accented the tight black catsuit she wore. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said smoothly.

Monroe caught her eye and reached out with the graceful caress of Presence. Her smile grew a little more genuine. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said, “but we’ll be a while. Family business. Come back in fifteen and we’ll order drinks.”

“Oh, yeah, totally. I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

As she teetered away, Monroe turned his glare back to Justin. “You don’t get it. I’m sorry, that’s my fault, but being around swathes of humans isn’t a good idea.”

Justin waved the menu around and rolled his eyes. “What do you call  _ this _ , and college,  _ and _ my work?”

“I know, and I applaud your deep reserves of self control, but if you lose it and kill your professor, all you’ve done is given  _ me _ a mess to clean up. If you kill your mother—”

“I won’t,” snapped Justin. “Look, I know I’ve got this spooky evil blood in me from that Sabbat, but I’m not a monster. I’m not going to ‘lose it’ and go on a murderous rampage.”

“You will,” promised Monroe grimly. “It’s just a matter of time. You will lose control and I want to be there to help you.”

Justin threw down the menu. “I thought this would be a nice opportunity to spend a little time together. You know, we don’t exactly eat dinner together, so we don’t really see each other much. I get it, Mr Big Bad Brooding V-Man, but I’m not like you. I’ve got a life. Okay? I don’t have to be boarded up at home, with your damn magazines, and your pen pals. I got friends, a job, a future. And—And—” As he ranted, the small ticks of sneers in his lips became worse, more like snarls.

“Justin, calm down.” Monroe stood, reaching to put a hand on Justin’s shoulder, but it was a mistake.

Justin stood and flipped the small table over. Conversation at nearby tables silenced. Eyes fixated on them.

If Monroe couldn’t bring him down, this could go from bad to worse in a hurry.

Justin pointed a finger, but his other hand had curled into a claw. “Just shut up,  _ shut up _ .”

The use of Dominate was strong, stronger than Monroe had thought Justin had become. But his generation was too high, the blood to weak to command Monroe’s, so the fingers simply slid around the perimeter of his mind, persistently trying to access.

Monroe raised his hands and shut up.

Justin panted. Blood had rushed to the surface of his skin. “Good. Better. Now, why don’t we go to Mirage?” 

“Justin—”

The pointed finger came back. 

“Justin,” he tried again, “I respect you and your choices. We can go wherever you want, but I really would highly advise going elsewhere.”

“Mirage,” snarled Justin.

  
  


Justin drove too fast. Monroe didn’t feel it prudent to correct him in this state, though as they entered downtown he slunk lower in his seat and avoided looking at Monroe. Monroe wasn’t so weak to be insulted by Justin’s outburst. Moreover, he was worried about the boy’s temper. Even more so than that, the ever present concerns of the Baltimore prince.

Monroe found his mind thinking of piss-poor excuses to give Garlotte if he found Monroe skulking around his downtown. Truly, there was no excuse. Only fleeing. Perhaps Prince Vitel of DC would have a more favourable look on Monroe than the last time they had met. It would teach Justin a lesson, at the very least.

“Look, man, I’m sorry,” Justin admitted at last. “I… I don’t think I’ll lose it in a crazy serial killer way, but I can say that since I got turned I’ve got a hard time with my temper.”

“More Brujah than Ventrue,” said Monroe mildly. 

Justin snorted. “Yeah, sorry I’m such a disappointment.”

“Never,” he swore. “Never would I ever consider you a disappointment. You’re right, you have a life. Despite death, you’ve been able to make something of yourself, to better yourself as a tradesman and a person. I’m proud of you.”

Justin sunk lower in his seat and didn’t say anything as the car slid through the traffic of downtown nightlife. Parties of young men and women careened down the sidewalk and across the street, between brightly lit clubs and bars.

“Do you understand what you’ve become?” asked Monroe quietly.

“Enlighten me. Actually—”

“You’re a predator. They’re prey. We can coexist peacefully, sometimes for a long time. We can make friends, family, lovers, but the Beast will get its way eventually.”

Justin scowled. “I was going to say I wasn’t interested.”

“The Beast isn’t something you can run from,” said Monroe regretfully. “The only thing we can do is learn from it. You can’t tell me you don’t hear its voice.”

Justin pulled into a nearby parking garage and killed the engine. “I hear it. I just don’t listen to it.”

“One day it won’t listen to you.”

Justin pulled a face. “I’m sick and tired of hearing all this doomsday crap. I get it, I’m a monster, I feed on blood. Give me a freaking break, though. I’m not a killer, I’m not some badass in a trench coat with a katana and SMG. I might be a supernatural creature outta myth and legend, but I’m not exactly labouring under a Biblical curse. So, shut up and come meet my girlfriend.”

“You—Your what?”

Justin beamed, but his toothy smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah, I got a girl. Haven’t fed on her. I met her at the college. She said she likes the Mirage and comes here on weekends.”

Monroe passed a hand over his mouth. “Justin, have you ever listened to a  _ single _ word I’ve told you?”

He raised his hands. “I haven’t broken any big bad V rules and it’s not like we’re gonna get married. I just like this girl.”

The Mirage was a technicolour bar, the swirling rainbow lights flashing from behind the bar and around the crown of the room like some corrupted kaleidoscope. The Mirage was clearly a go-between and meetup for different types of late night cliques. Some groups were already high and having a ball in the booths while the bartender ostentatiously ignored them, others waiting soberly for the rest of their party.

Justin took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer to not look to conspicuous. Monroe did the same.

“She’s not here yet?” asked Monroe.

Justin took a sip from his beer before backwashing it back into the glass with a foul look. “Not yet.”

“What’re we looking for, then?”

“She’s blonde, really pretty, and really short, with—Oh, fuck me.”

Monroe followed Justin’s eye. A devastatingly sexy woman in fishnets and tall boots stalked towards them with a look to kill on her face.

Monroe rolled his eyes at Justin and wished alcohol worked on kindred. He tried the beer. It was just as rancid-tasting as ever and he spat it back out.

“Justin,” purred the woman. She lay a hand of red talons across the shoulders of his jean jacket. “It’s been so long.” Her fingers played with his jaw and up into his hair.

Justin looked like he didn’t know how to arrange his face. He coughed. “Matt, this is Sasha. Doll, this is my housemate, Matt.”

_ Doll _ . As in blood doll.

Monroe could only shake his head. Then again, everyone had their tastes. 

“Wonderful to meet you,” he said crisply, but it was clear the woman had no eyes for him. Almost certainly, Justin had given Sasha his blood. Perhaps she was naturally just like that, though.

“ ‘Doll’?” cooed Sasha. “Ooh, I like that, sugar. That’s so sweet. Did you come back here just to see me?”

“Back?” repeated Monroe sharply. “We had agreed on Loreman’s club  _ only _ .”

Justin shrugged with such a pathetic, helpless look on his face that Monroe could only be disgusted. Where had he gone wrong? How strong of a hand did Justin truly need? Monroe had gotten soft with the years.

Monroe wasn’t especially hungry, but the inevitable and enviable scent of orphan blood somewhere in the dimly lit bar tickled him in a familiar way. It was easy to get lost in the scent, especially as Sasha continued to flirt and fondle Justin in front of him.

Eventually, he stood in search of the scent, clutching his beer, but Justin scarcely paid him any attention. Monroe filled his lungs with the scent that had haunted him since his earliest nights. Rich and vital, satisfying like nothing else. But who had it?

The Beast crouched somewhere in the vicinity of his dead heart, languishing in the slow stalking through the bar. He allowed the Beast its reins, leading him as the predator he had told Justin about again and again, and yet the kid—

Focus.

Him. He sat alone with a drink, trimmed stubble, nondescript black t-shirt and jeans, perhaps thirty. He turned to call for a waiter, and the tendons of his neck stood out. When he spoke with the waiter, it was very friendly, and the waiter lingered as they kept talking. He was alone, bored, looking for company.

Kindred didn’t have sexualities, not as such. In a matter of a few short years, the ecstasy of blood overruled any and every lust the human ever had.

Without the faintest idea of a plan, Monroe smiled crookedly and sat himself down opposite the man with the beer.

“Know any good parties around here?” he asked.

The man, surprised, nodded. “Sure. Me and my friends were about to hit up a few house parties by the harbour. What’s your scene?” He gave a smirk to Monroe’s dress shirt. Even with the sleeves rolled and top buttons undone, it was a touch formal. “Not this place?”

“All I need is good music and cool people.”

The man kept nodding, like a bobblehead. “I’m Ben. What’s your story?”

“Monroe. New in town, looking to find some rad cats. You know, the real bee’s knees.” He smiled. “Homies.”

Ben smiled back and the look he gave Monroe changed slightly. Perhaps Monroe hadn’t been as good about concealing his own hunger, but Ben mirrored it in a more human way. “Looking for a girlfriend?” he asked casually.

“Not my scene, Ben.” Monroe took a sip from the beer and gagged at the taste.

Ben laughed and reached out a hand to get him to put the beer down. The touch of mortals burned with a tantalizing heat against his dead skin. “Let me buy you a better drink, Marilyn.”

Monroe twitched at the name. It was something he had heard more from casual mortals and it never failed to aggravate him. The Beast felt his anger and urged him to make poor Ben pay. But he stuffed down the glare and reached out his own hand. Ben leaned his face into it, but the fingers trailed down his neck. The pulse beat rapidly against Monroe’s fingers and his fangs tingled. Without a word, Monroe knew he had him.

A woman cried loudly, yelling indistinctly over the music.

The spell broke. Ben turned. Some woman yelled at a man at the bar. “What’s going on? She alright?”

Monroe tried to coax Ben back to him, but it was too late. His Beast snarled and tempted his lips to follow suit. And he had been so proud of the Discipline-less seduction. Might even be a new record for him. Admitting his defeat, Monroe turned— 

— and bolted from the table, shoving his way through people. They parted easily, all watching the argument, some more subtly than others.

The woman was very blonde. Very pretty. And very short. She wasn’t yelling at a man, but the towering figure that was Sasha. It was shrill, and pitched high over the music. Monroe didn’t fear some human altercation, but rather Justin.

The delicate blonde woman stumbled back several paces. Sasha had punched her. And then Monroe smelled it. Not orphan, not even close to that nectar that Ben and so many others carried. But blood all the same. The scent consumed his nostrils and became the only thing in his world — gone was the swirling technicolour bar, the smells of liquor and beer, the laughing, the hundred milling conversations, the people. There was only the blood.

Monroe gained control of himself fast enough, but that hesitation was too long.

Sasha, taller even than many of the men, stood with a dim, blank expression on her face. As though she were merely a robot. To many humans, she was simply shocked, or had removed herself from the fight. To Monroe and any others, it was the telltale sign of a hasty and overpowerful use of Dominate.

The bar was silent. The music played on, but a hundred people stared, fish-mouthed, at the fight. When Monroe pushed to the front, he saw why.

Justin had lost it at last. He had his arms wrapped around the blonde girl, his face buried in her neck. Though limp, she moaned carnally, lost to the world in the pleasure of the bite. But she was pale. Terribly pale. 

“Justin.” Monroe yelled his name. Again and again.

But Justin was too far gone, lost as much as his victim.

Monroe grabbed him by the shoulder and wrenched with all his strength. The kid lost his grip on the girl and she fell to the ground, unmistakably dead. Justin snarled with long fangs, his lips painted with her blood.

As soon as the first person screamed, there was no stopping them. Pandamonium. Some struggled to flee, running from the monster as fast as they could. Othes, who hadn’t seen the fight, came closer. Monroe couldn’t care about the humans, though.

“Justin, I know you can hear me,” he said calmingly. Though he named the boy, he addressed the Beast that had taken over. “The issue at hand has been dealt with — jealousy, anger, frustration — whatever it was, it’s been taken care of. You’re safe.”

Justin bared his fangs and hissed. Though Monroe hadn’t taught him to fight, he lowered his center of gravity, like an animal about to strike. The Beast had its instincts.

“Don’t fight me, boy, you won’t like what happens.”

But the Beast was beyond warning. Justin leapt. Monroe side-stepped him and grabbed him by the shoulder, trying hard to stay out of the way of those gnashing fangs. Thank God that Caine didn’t see fit to give Ventrue claws, as well.

“Am I going to have to knock you out to take you home?” he demanded.

Justin hissed again, struggling wildly against the grip.

A woman still sat at the bar, feet away from the frenzying vampire. She had frozen, trembling in a fear that rooted her. She looked from Justin to Monroe.

“ _ Run _ ,” he commanded. The will was delicate, strong but bereft of normal defences.

She ran.

Justin wriggled free from Monroe’s hand and punched him in the nose. It was a clumsy punch, but the force he delivered it with threw Monroe flat on his back. His nose broke painfully and bloodlessly.

Justin’s Beast clearly thought Monroe dealt with, and he advanced towards the mute and waiting Sasha. Monroe scrambled to his feet, but Justin had already snapped her neck and began to drink from the cooling body.

Monroe tuned his Presence to its shattering potential. It drew the eyes of the frantic mortals like magnets, and Justin, though he struggled. There was nothing of the sweet boy who played at human. His eyes were crazed, wild and white, pupils swollen to a colossal size. Monroe grasped for a will to control, but there was nothing. Just the scattered mind of a frenzy.

“ _ Stop. Freeze. Drop her. Calm. _ ”

The commands slicked off Justin without any effect.

Monroe launched himself at Justin. Sasha fell from his grasp as Justin pummeled him uselessly. The two of them collided into the far wall. The plaster cracked, flaking from above. Justin’s fists found purchase, but Monroe could take it. The greatest and most understated gift of Clan Ventrue was the skill of Fortitude, unlooked until it was invaluable. The pain echoed in shockwaves across him, but ribs didn’t break, blood didn’t spill.

Eventually, Justin’s attacks slowed and had less strength. A dash of awareness came back to him and he awoke with a terrible realization of horror.

“Oh, god,” he whimpered. He clung to Monroe with trembling fingers.

Monroe took his weight off the kid and returned the hug. “You’ll be alright,” he said. “I know.”

With the immediate issue passed, though, the concerns of clean-up took precedence. Monroe’s only contact in the city was Loreman, who likely couldn’t keep this attack from the papers, who didn’t have the clout to prevent the prince from finding out. Even Monroe’s skill in Dominate couldn’t erase memories if he couldn’t find the hundred people who had witnessed this. They needed to run. Even so, Monroe knew he had made an enemy for unlife in Garlotte.

The bar had emptied totally. Even the bartender had fled. As had Ben, Monroe noted with pangs of hunger. Two people still waited, though, at the far entrance. Staring at them. A man and woman. They looked distinctly alike, almost like siblings. Inky black hair, stern prominent features, tall and strongly built.

Almost like siblings. Isaac Goldwin and Katrina Greene. Prince Garlotte had Embraced them for their resemblance to each other and to him. 

  
  


Monroe and Justin waited in a room very familiar to Monroe. The waiting room of Garlotte’s personal quarters in the Lord Baltimore Hotel. Behind those doors, Garlotte’s childer relayed the story. Katrina was furious. Her club, destroyed, and she was  _ not _ going to fix the Masquerade downtown. 

Monroe had a strong desire to break something — one of the vases, perhaps — but he knew they wouldn’t survive the night if he didn’t grovel. In all honesty, it would be a minor miracle if either of them survived anyway. But he had to try, for Justin’s sake at least. 

What did princes want? What did Garlotte want? Same as all Ventrue: power, recognition for it, respect. Ventrue and especially those already in power often had a streak of sadism, of making their enemies suffer. Was Monroe such a pain in Garlotte’s backside that he counted as an enemy? Likely after tonight.

“Her name was Becky,” said Justin at last. It was the only proper words he had said in the hours since being escorted from Mirage.

Monroe had nothing to say. He had done his share of words of useless consoling on the floor of the Mirage. He knew the boy would frenzy eventually, and the first was always the worst, but he hadn’t counted on it being so catastrophic. 

The voices silenced. The doors opened. Goldwin’s grim face greeted them.

“Come in,” he said.

It was only the three of them — the prince and his two childer. That might have been a cautiously good sign. Without a scourge, their execution might be postponed. Goldwin was hardly the killing type.

The prince sat on an opulent stuffed armchair that served as a throne. Every inch of his face was writ in fury. “ _ Kneel _ .”

Monroe needed no further persuading from Dominate, but the power of Garlotte’s will made him see stars as he collapsed to a knee. Justin simply fell to both like a puppet with his strings cut. Blood and tears wet his face.

“I seem to see you again, Mr Monroe,” said Garlotte.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“We agreed I would never hear from you again.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps it would be right that no one ever hear from you again.”

“It would be, Your Highness.”

“ _ Look at me. _ ”

Monroe raised his head and faced the prince. His subservience had only exasperated Garlotte’s anger. He wasn’t an entertaining captive. 

“Explain to your pet the damage he has done,” commanded Garlotte.

Monroe kept his voice steady and emotionless as he relayed the night’s events. “Mr Merlot, you frenzied in a crowded and public establishment owned by Miss Katrina Greene, childe of the Prince of Baltimore. The results of this frenzy have left two dead humans, along with several displays of supernatural abilities before mortals.”

Justin began to cry again. Garlotte stared at Monroe and Monroe, compelled, stared back. Garlotte’s eyes were deep black, narrowed pits in which Monroe easily saw his own demise. He would grovel, but he refused to show Garlotte any weakness on behalf of Justin. It would only give the prince new avenues to exercise sadism.

“You two have risked the exposure of our world,” Garlotte yelled. His voice seemed to shake the ceiling. “The Masquerade of downtown Baltimore lies in tatters because of the whims of a wretched Caitiff and an arrogant autarkis, who believes he can do no wrong.”

Garlotte took his eyes from Monroe to address Justin, who seemed to collapse inward with every word. The eyes removed, Monroe was free to gaze where he will. He took in the room, desperately searching for something. Anything.

The room was immaculate, dust free, every ornament arranged artfully on desks and bookshelves. The portraits and rugs sat with perfect angles. That only made the folder that much more obvious.

A folder, tossed on the end table next to Garlotte. It had been closed urgently. Pieces of it stuck out at the edge, not neatly put away. None of them had been letters. The edges showed a map, scrawled and marked up. It might’ve been a map of domains, but Monroe read the name of a street.  _ Charles-Cross Road _ . Out east, on the edge of the harbour, where Monroe had found Justin. The Sabbat. It had been months since their fall of New York. Baltimore was the first stop before DC, and even few Sabbat would dare test the powers of Prince Marcus Vitel. 

Garlotte was struggling to hold his city together.

That didn’t bode well for them, as he would take the path of least resistance and use Justin and Monroe to release his anger. 

“... pathetic excuse for a Ventrue, and a waste of blood and the Gifts of Caine.” His anger cooled to a low simmer. “I want it known that for your lack of self-control and your master’s incompetence, I sentence both of you to death.”

“Your Highness, if I may?” asked Monroe. The words came to him and threatened to steal his voice as he spoke them.

Garlotte turned his attention and those black eyes back to Monroe. “You won’t be allowed to flee this time.”

“You may call me Caitiff until the sun comes for us, Your Highness, but I am Ventrue,” he said. “I have suffered the agoge and emerged victorious. My blood is noted in the Directorate’s Offices of Lineage. I am a ninth descendent of Ventru by his childe Artemis Orthia. So long as I have vitae to rise, however few those nights may be, I will keep my word. It is in this spirit that I offer a life boon in exchange for our lives.”

Though Garlotte gave every indication of scornfully interrupting him, he paused at the offer as Monroe knew he would. So long as Garlotte thought he was in control, he might give it thought. Monroe was tempted to extol himself as a fighter, a strategist, to mention his work in New York, but that would have revealed too much. It had to be Garlotte’s own scheme. Garlotte was clever, he would figure it out. 

A life boon was a terrible thing, but it might’ve been the only thing. Monroe would rather die than enslave himself to another Ventrue, but he had made another promise. And keeping that took precedence over his own desires. 

_ So long as you are in my charge, I will teach you what I know and I will protect you from harm with everything at my disposal. _

“It hardly seems fair to spare two lives and, in return, only receive a life boon,” said Garlotte sternly.

_ Only receive a life boon _ . Greedier words had never been spoken by kindred or kine. Still, he had accepted the concept and only wished to make a show of haggling over price.

“My life is worth nothing to me,” said Monroe. “As a debt, my life boon is infinitely more valuable than that of a fledgling.”

Garlotte considered the incredibly lofty offer. An ancillae, with experience combatting and strategising against Sabbat, versus a fledgling barely out of his first frenzy.

“I accept the life boon, Mr Monroe,” said Garlotte formally. He undid the buttons on his sleeve and pushed it up. He bit through the skin and the scent of powerful vitae filled the room. Monroe was hungry. “Drink.”

There was no Dominate in the command. There would never need to be. Garlotte might, in years to come, take a certain pleasure in using it on his thrall but Monroe’s honour would compel him more than any Discipline or blood bond. The enormity of what Monroe had just done fell on his shoulders. He was in debt.

Monroe crawled to the feet of the throne and drank from the wrist. The flavour was excruciatingly beautiful. It promised to satisfy hunger like nothing else, but was gone too soon. And Monroe was left kneeling at Garlotte’s feet as the first trickle of the blood bond played over his heart.

He  _ knew _ he loathed Garlotte, that he was a power hungry tyrant who loathed him in equal measure. Garlotte had taken every opportunity to remind Monroe of his inferior blood, to insult his accomplishments and  _ dignitas _ . 

But the emotions were blunted by the edge of the bond. Every positive feeling Monroe had ever had towards Garlotte was amplified — few as they were. Garlotte was the lawful Prince of Baltimore. He ruled his kindred justly; none had complaints of his actions. He was an upstanding Ventrue with great accomplishments to his own name. Even in the shadow of Marcus Vitel and DC, Prince Garlotte held his own.

The voice — strong, commanding respect, yet cultured — came as though from a million miles away. “Your first task will be to remove Mr Merlot from my city, by any means necessary.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

  
  


Lost in the common work of his night, Monroe wouldn’t have been surprised of a decade had flown by. Yet, on the off-times he did check his calendar, it had been only three months. 

The Sabbat were exactly the menace he had suspected. The devils prodded the defences of the city, testing, then striking at random. Poor Sheriff Isaac struggled by. He could wrangle Baltimore’s subjects, but the Sabbat were a different beast. Together, they secured the perimeter and shored up the holes. Since then, attacks had grown more and more infrequent as the Sabbat refugees from New York found new domains.

Prince Garlotte had shown him more clemency than he needed. Though Monroe didn’t often attend elysium, he was more a part of a Camarilla city than he had been in decades. Many scorned or snickered at him, knowing his boon debt. Still, he had acquaintances. He struggled to call them friends. He enjoyed their company, playing poker, discussing common events. The prince had quickly grown sick of Monroe’s commute from the suburbs to the hotel, so he had allowed Monroe domain of one of the lower hotel rooms. A windowless room with a bed, a table, two chairs, and a television. He needed nothing more.

Truly, what he needed was more blood. Monroe had forgotten how it felt to be blood bonded. Along with his Beast, already chained and leashed by Prince Garlotte, there was another hunger. A desire, an aching, itching addiction to the prince’s blood. He never gave it often enough. Only four times since that night Monroe had sworn himself to service.

Monroe buried his face in his hands. For a small moment, barely a blink, he saw things clearly. He saw his elysium acquaintances as desperate ladder-climbers, trying to reach the prince. He saw his hotel room as a prison cell, Garlotte his slave master.

Then, it was gone. The bond-tinted glasses fell back. Life was perfect.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, the aching spot he sometimes rubbed in thought. “Are you alright, sir?”

Monroe shook the thoughts — all of them — from his mind. “Just thinking.”

Hawthorne raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him. She, too, lived with him at the Lord Baltimore Inn, the slave of a slave. She never complained for herself. Always him. Monroe had a terrible realisation that this bond was what she had lived with for two and a half centuries. He stood and wrapped his arms around her.

Surprised, she hugged him back. “Clearly not alright. Is there anything I can do?”

Monroe struggled, not only for words but thoughts. If his life was perfect, there should be nothing she could. And yet, she was certainly unhappy. But why wasn’t  _ he _ unhappy? He should be unhappy. But the prince would ensure he wasn’t.

Hawthorne stepped back from the hug and turned on their radio again. The Beatles. She sat on the bed, legs crossed under her, and she pulled a chess set from the end table. It was cheap, the pieces plastic with rough seams, but she wordlessly set it up.

Monroe sat across from her and flipped it around, giving her white. 

“You’ve no work tonight,” she said with a small smile.

“Not yet.”

“Maybe tonight we should just relax,” she offered. “Music, a few games, and we can telephone a friend or two.”

Monroe took his cell phone and pager out of his pockets, throwing both on the bedsheet. The prince was unlikely to page him, but Isaac might. He dialed the number by memory and left the cell on speakerphone.

Lloyd’s crackly voice answered. “No one’s home. Can I take a message?”

Hawthorne made the first move on the board.

“It’s me,” said Monroe.

“Oh,  _ shit _ ,” said Lloyd. Clothes ruffled and it took a moment for him to return. “Am I in trouble with Prince Baltimore?”

The mention of Garlotte stole Monroe’s smile. He wrestled with his Beast and the bond to find words to say.

Hawthorne took one look at his face. “Mr Monroe would like to say ‘fuck the prince’, I believe.”

The words were like daggers at the heart of his bond, but he shrugged.

Lloyd laughed. “That’s what I like to hear. Nothing much is new over in DC. Your boys are doing well, don’t you worry, Mr Monroe. We just got your cheque — thanks for that, by the way — and we’ll be looking to open that garage in another month.”

“That money is the very least I could do for you,” said Monroe in a pained voice. It wasn’t a lot by his standards, but tons by Lloyd’s, and he was willing to settle the minor boon for taking in Justin. “How’s he doing?”

Lloyd sucked at his fangs. 

No one liked it when Monroe asked that question. At first call, Justin had been a wreck — depressed at having killed that human girl, at leaving his family, the pseudo-life he had built up. Then, he had grown terribly guilty as people told him the meaning of a life boon. He had tried several times to give Monroe a life boon of his own, but he had refused. 

“He’s hanging,” said Lloyd. “Could be better, has been much worse. Things are starting to look up a little bit, I think. He went out with Max and Charlie tonight.”

Monroe managed to crack a smile. He slid a rook to take Hawthorne’s pawn. “That’s good, that’s—”

He dropped the rook. His hand lost all feeling and it swiped aside half the board. The pain. Like a stake through the heart, vibrating through his limbs. Nothing existed but the agony, but it wasn’t physical — emotional, psychic, spiritual. It spoke to his Beast. Chains snapped.

Hands — hot, frantic, mortal — grabbed for his face, his shoulders, to try to steady him before he fell over. A familiar face. Lips moving, but he couldn’t hear. Static filled his ears and mind.

The pain and weakness left as suddenly as it had come and the world slid back into perfect clarity.

“—I don’t know. Monroe! Can you hear me?”

“Is he frenzying? Shit. Can you get a witch or something up in there?”

“No, he’s—”

“Garlotte is dead.”

Hawthorne took a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.”

Monroe bolted from the room. He had to know, for sure. He needed to see it. He ignored the elevator and leapt across the staircases, from landing to landing. Thirteen floors, he didn’t break a sweat. The prince was dead. How was that possible? And yet, he was certain. As certain as when Alastair Fowler had been killed.

There was no elysium tonight. No court meetings, no Board. The prince should be in his private quarters. Terrible taste and design, Monroe thought forcefully to himself. A washed-up weak bastard who couldn’t keep with the times.

The insults sparked nothing from his Beast or the bond.

Garlotte was dead.

At worst, Monroe could throw himself at Garlotte’s feet and plead fear, worry for his master’s life. He might take some punishment, but nothing akin to what Fowler had done to him.

The heavy double doors were cream, inlaid with gold filigree. And locked. Monroe slammed with his shoulder, all his weight and supernatural strength. The heavy deadbolt had held, but the wood hadn’t. The doors cracked, the wood splintering at the top, but they opened. 

The room looked much the same as always. No sign of a struggle. The ornaments and paintings untouched, the furniture in its place. But a pile of clothes sat in the chair Garlotte used as his throne. A crumpled suit, tie, shoes on the floor. Monroe lifted the edge of the cloth and a fine ash filtered through and onto the floor.

Another pile of ash and clothes sat by the open window. Not entirely ash, though. The flesh had rotted away, but not all the bones had turned to dust. A skull had rolled several feet away. Younger kindred. And another pile, but there was no suit and even more bones. It was a dress, revealing in cut, and sparkling with plastic sequins.

“The prince and the sheriff,” said Hawthorne with horror.

“Both his childer,” said Monroe. He passed a hand through his hair. 

It could’ve been anyone. Princes had many rivals and there was the Sabbat to consider. But there was a far worse implication. Kindred boons were invioble and, if unpaid, passed through death. Life boons could almost never be paid in full. It was what made them so dangerous. Either of Garlotte’s childer would’ve taken on Monroe’s life boon.

Whoever had done this had planned on using Monroe as their catspaw. He would be executed for this. The prince had declared the Sabbat threat eliminated — on Monroe’s word. Already, Baltimore’s Ventrue held the same wretched opinions of him that Garlotte had: a Caitiff, clan traitor, Anarch sympathizer, lawless, honourless wretch, Camarilla by merest association.

And now, to add to that, prince-slayer, boon dodger. 

Monroe knew he had more honour than most kindred, more than most Ventrue truthfully, but it was the law of boons. It was how kindred commerce operated. Trust. He wasn’t a boon dodger, he would happily give it to another. But Baltimore’s kindred wouldn’t ask questions when they found him with the dead prince.

Monroe looked at Hawthorne and made a snap decision. “We have to run,” he said.

She nodded and they left the prince’s private quarters quickly. Hawthorne headed to the parking garage, Monroe to the prison cell to retrieve their scant personal belongings. The call with Lloyd was still running.

“Hey, you back? What’s wrong with Monroe?”

Monroe took the Brujah off speaker as he grabbed the Beatles record off the turntable. “I’m fine. Better than I’ve been in three months.”

“Three months? What you mean?”

“Only way to break a blood bond is death.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Okay.” Lloyd didn’t believe him. If he didn’t, there was nothing else to say.

“Take care of Justin.”

Monroe hung up and hurried to join Hawthorne at the car.

  
  


This time, it was Hawthorne who drove too fast. They had no direction but west. Baltimore and DC, by nature, were surrounded by Sabbat. Monroe could think of a city when they were a hundred miles away from Baltimore.

But Hawthorne was safe. His charge. She was alive. That was all that mattered. Everything else could wait.

The city disappeared in the rearview mirror, fast replaced by small towns, which were even faster replaced by the endless stretch of I-81. Shrubberies and small trees broke the endless horizon, but not by much. This late at night, they were the only car on the road. No one from Baltimore had given chase. If Monroe didn’t think too much, he could’ve sworn they were the only people in the world.

“Pull over,” he said at last. He had been chewing on his next actions the last few hours.

Hawthorne did as he said without question. Her face was deeply wrinkled by stress, but she didn’t speak. Monroe put a hand on her leg. “We’ll be okay,” he promised.

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Monroe stepped from the car and dialed a phone number he was never meant to call. Leaving him with it had been an honour, a formality. It might not even be connected. Monroe took out his pocketwatch. Well past midnight. His thumb brushed over the seal, as though it could convey some sort of confidence.

It rang several times before a voice answered. Male, he spoke English with a heavy Dutch accent, but it wasn’t Pieterzoon. Anton Ritter, Pieterzoon’s ghoul.

“Hello, Mr Ritter,” said Monroe cheerfully. “This is Mr Matthew Monroe, from America. I’m looking to speak with your regent.”

“Mr Pieterzoon is indisposed right now, sir, may I take a message?”

Monroe rubbed his forehead. “This is important.”

“Sir, Mr Pieterzoon has empowered me to hear offers from all his contacts, and to offer condolences on his behalf.”

Monroe looked at the dark and empty sky above him. “It’s daylight in Amsterdam, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

Monroe cursed himself for asking this, but with the time difference, he might not get a chance to speak until it was too late. He was desperate.

“Ritter, you are going to go into Mr Pieterzoon’s sleeping quarters, wake him, and hand him this phone,” he said. “It is a matter of great personal urgency that I speak with your regent.”

“Mr Monroe—” began Ritter contemptuously.

“The Prince of Baltimore is dead,” snapped Monroe. “Now, wake him up, damn you.”

Ritter had apparently gained Pieterzoon’s damnable gift for silence. “One moment, sir.”

It was far more than one moment. It was many, many moments. The line was silent so long Monroe had thought Ritter had simply hung up on him. Monroe thought of turning back, of going to DC to throw himself at the mercy of Prince Marcus Vitel, who had somewhat less than vocal contempt for him. Of course, that would only end with a sunrise as well. The Camarilla would be all but shuttered to him. His work against the Sabbat in New York would ensure no mercy in their cities either. 

Then, the voice he was waiting to hear spoke. He didn’t sound sleepy or grumpy, but his displeasure was voiced in his choice of language. Dutch, rather than English. Monroe’s Dutch, especially concerning matters of kindred, was sparse but he accepted his place and replied in Pieterzoon’s native language.

“Good evening, Mr Monroe,” said Pieterzoon stiffly.

“Sir, I apologize for waking you at this hour.”

“You have given my assistant quite a fright, I assure you. What is this about Baltimore?”

“For matters related to a fledgling I Accounted for, sir, I owe Prince Garlotte of Baltimore a life boon. I served him for three months. Tonight, I found him dead.”

“I see. In that case, the life boon passes to the holder’s eldest childe.”

“Both childer of Prince Garlotte are dead, sir.”

Pieterzoon gifted Monroe one of his customary silences, which Monroe’s fear deigned to fill with more prattle. Once he started talking, he found he couldn’t stop.

“Custom dictates boons may then be passed into the possession of a clan elder. No other Ventrue exists in Baltimore that is even my elder. A Ventrue ruling on the passing of personal boons between clanmates at the Gerousia of Prague, September 1772, dictates that, with a lack of appropriate clan elders in the city of the boon, the debtor may contact a worthy clan elder in which to pass the holding of their boon.”

Monroe knew Pieterzoon better than to think he would simply hang up on him, but Monroe took his mouth on the phone briefly. For several minutes, there was no sound but the crickets in the high grasses alongside I-81. Wordlessly, he begged whatever divine force looked after kindred to give him a break.

For half a moment, he considered pleading by the Ethic of Succor, but he wasn’t on his last legs. Not yet.

“Mr Monroe.”

Monroe glued the phone back to his ear. “Sir.”

“I have no use for this boon. Yet, I hear the plight under which you now struggle. It is only for the matter of respect I hold for you that I will accept mastery of your life boon and ensure it is documented discreetly through the appropriate channels.”

“Thank you, sir.” A breath of stale air left his lungs with relief. It choked in his throat.

“Understand, Mr Monroe, that while I do not intend to make immediate use of it, I may call upon it at any moment.”

“I understand, sir,” said Monroe grimly. “There is nothing you may not command of the debtor of a life boon.”

“Our business, then, is concluded.”

“Yes, sir. I do deeply apologize for waking you.”

“It was no trouble at all. You have made this worth my while.”

The line went dead. 

Both elated and terrified, Monroe slipped back into the passenger seat next to Hawthorne.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I got Pieterzoon to take it,” he said. “He didn’t need much convincing.”

Hawthorne didn’t even seem surprised. “Are we headed to Amsterdam, then?”

Monroe shook his head. “He’s leaving me to my own devices, for now. I’m not anxious to return to the Old World anytime soon.” Europe, as he had discovered, was full of kindred that made American princes look like humanitarians. Pieterzoon was practically a court jester.

“Continue west, then?” Hawthorne started the car and edged back onto the road.

“The Camarilla will trust me less than ever,” he said, more to himself than her. “Word will get out, they’ll blame me for the prince’s death.”

“Any ideas for a destination?”

“West. Until we run out of west.”


End file.
